So Here We Are
by junejuly15
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, eighteen, is an obstinate pupil, a rebel and an outsider and Lewisham Hall might be his last chance. When John Watson sees him walking across the school's lawn for the first time he's immediately intrigued. But so is Jim Moriarty, the school's unrivalled king - Teenlock/Boarding school AU - Chapter 12: So here we are ... Now Complete
1. A memorable entrance

**This is the first chapter of my teenlock/boarding school AU **_**So Here We Are**_**. It's set in a mixed school because I need the girls for the storyline and ... well, you'll see :)) It's a school entirely made up by my imagination, meaning for example that there are no school uniforms and the curriculum will contain whatever I fancy ... Now, please join this imaginary world and enjoy reading!**

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_**So Here We Are **_

**Chapter 1****: A memorable entrance**

The bell chimed - once - twice. Shrill, rude even, demanding everybody to finish their lunch break and leave their secret hideouts, their sanctuaries.

John Watson heard it as well, of course he did, but he did not stir a finger to obey the bell's command. Nothing more than a disillusioned little sigh escaped him and he lifted his head a tiny fraction, just enough to see smaller students eagerly dashing over the immaculate green lawns towards the main building. Little Carl Powers was among them, and John saw him stumble and fall, but helped by his laughing friends he immediately leapt up to his feet and continued on his way. The older ones, among them his friends Sarah and Mike, followed suit, displaying considerable less eagerness to be subjected to yet another afternoon full of learning, and they made sure to be casually ambling, chatting and laughing. Students in their senior year, like John, were still nowhere to be seen.

John felt way too comfortable where he was and was loath to leave his hiding place, this little paradise he had found all those weeks ago. Then, it had been less hidden from view as the surrounding apple and pear trees had still been wintry and bare. But the potential of this place had been evident even then, and now, well into June, the place was just perfect. A little dip on the upper part of a sloping orchard, carpeted with soft moss and grass. It was like a bed nature had provided for those who cared to look. A huge, gnarled old apple tree stood right beside it, its branches conveniently reaching down almost to the ground, building a leafy canopy and natural visual cover. And to top it all it was a perfect vantage point. Perfect to observe without being seen.

Ever since he had found it, it had been John's place, a place nobody else knew about. Nobody, but Molly Hooper that was, the pretty and docile girl he had been going out with over the past weeks - Well, sort of, as maintaining something like a relationship, however loose, was not easy here. To be honest, nothing was _easy_ at Lewisham Hall.

John turned onto his side and propped his head onto his palm, letting his other hand absentmindedly stroke over the soft moss and reach for a bit of grass to chew on. Students were still streaming from all directions towards the main building, careful not to be too late and be caught by Mrs Hudson, the matron, or much worse, by their headmaster, Mr Lestrade.

With a grunt John slumped back onto the warm grass and stared at the glimpses of sky he could see through the softly rustling leaves. Being caught out here after the bell had rung was nothing he deeply worried about. Frankly, he couldn't care less. After all, it was only a few bloody weeks to go before he would leave this goddamned place, be free, go to the army, and take whatever life would throw at him. Molly would stay on, she still had a year to go, and well ... they would see, wouldn't they?

The bell had long seized to chime, and the last students had dashed across the perfect lawns or had reluctantly left the picturesque patios and the immaculate football fields almost ten minutes ago. John sighed again, another heartfelt sigh, and when he finally felt he could not extend his freedom any longer, he made to get up to join the rest of his class.

He was ducking underneath the hanging branches when he noticed a tall and lonely figure leisurely strolling over the lawn. His first thought was that it was just another latecomer, like him, a kindred spirit so to speak - but something in the way this young man or boy, it was difficult to tell from that distance, held himself caught his eye and he stopped dead in his tracks for a moment to watch.

This boy was as tall as he was gangly, but what would have been curious or awkward in any other boy John knew, was elegant and catlike in this one. A full head of dark - John squinted the better to see - curly, dark hair, completed the impression of an elegant and sleek animal. He was carrying a holdall and a box, but the obvious weight of his luggage did not seem to slow him down or bother him in the least. Without thinking John straightened himself to his full height and slowly made his way towards the lawn, towards the school buildings, following this boy at a safe distance.

John frowned, he was sure now that he had never seen this boy before, so he racked his brain who on earth he could be, but to no avail. It bugged him, and he eventually settled on the only logical conclusion that he must be new. When John came a bit nearer, he became fairly certain that he had to be about his own age, which would be eighteen soon.

And suddenly everything fell into place when John remembered the ominous words of one of their teachers he had overheard a few days ago -

_A very difficult case, that boy. Has been thrown out of various schools. Bit of a free spirit, a rebel. We're something like his last chance! Well, we'll see about that, won't we?_ Followed by this smug laughter teachers employ when they feel entirely sure of themselves -

Of course! That's who he was! That simply _must_ be him - the outcast, the rebel! How quaint to sneak in over the lawns, on foot, instead of being driven safely up to the main entrance by caring and over-protective parents as was usually the case.

Well, this memorable entrance a few weeks before the school year ended was very intriguing indeed and only served to spurn John on and to quicken his pace. Strangely enough he could not close the gap between them, it was as if the boy had sensed him even from that afar and had quickened his pace accordingly. John was absolutely certain that he was aware of being followed and observed without as much as having turned his head even a tiny fraction.

John grinned, and slowed down. No need to chase him now, he would meet him soon enough.

oOo

'Ooh, look at _that_! That must be the new one!' Jim said, derision dripping from every syllable, an ugly sneer disfiguring his handsome face. He was sitting on a desk close to the window, his feet illicitly propped up on the radiator. Barely fifteen minutes into the lesson their teacher, boring old Mr Henslow, had been called to the headmaster's office, thus leaving his senior class unsupervised. 'Such a pretty boy, isn't he?' Jim drawled, and when no answer came, he roughly nudged the boy standing closest to him with his foot. 'I said, such a pretty boy. Isn't he, Sebastian?'

Sebastian knew what was expected of him and promptly said in a silly voice. 'Right, Jim. Very _preeetty_.'

The other boys sniggered, unwilling to cross James Moriarty, the school's unrivalled king. The girls had looked up at the combination of the words _pretty_ and _boy_, but coming from Jim they knew to take it with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless, they all made sure to turn their attention into the direction Jim and Sebastian were looking and saw a tall, skinny boy walking up to the back entrance. From their position, a ground floor classroom, they would soon lose sight of him, so they all rushed up to the big windows and watched his slow approach.

The boy was carrying a large holdall, evidently stuffed to the brim, over his right shoulder and a box of books under his left arm. Suddenly, as if sensing he was being watched, he looked into their direction, sending them one intense and piercing glare, before he turned his attention back to finding the entrance. That was all the reaction they got for their impolite demeanour, and this boy had not even given them the satisfaction to slow down, but had kept up a leisurely, yet steady pace.

'Look at him, Jim. All dressed up like grandma's darling, isn't he?' Henry smirked, accompanied by a chortling snort. He pointed a chubby finger at the boy, who was dressed in a dark suit and crisp white shirt which stood in stark contrast to their own casual attire.

'Shut up, Hen,' Jim hissed, reducing the other boy to an embarrassed silence.

'Leave him alone, James!' Sally sharply said and turned away from the windows. For those standing around it remained unsure whom exactly she was referring to and Jim himself did not grace the girl's order with a reply. Instead he eagerly leaned forward, like a predator sensing his prey and fixed his eyes on the boy outside. For a moment his eyes flickered to somebody walking maybe seventy or eighty yards behind this interesting new creature and Jim sneered when he recognised John Watson, his classmate and favourite adversary.

'Well, well, well,' Jim muttered, more to himself than to his audience and closed his eyes for a few delicious seconds, intensifying the image of a dangerous animal concentrating all its senses on the next kill. When he resumed staring fixedly at the new boy, his eyes never left the approaching figure until he had disappeared from sight and entered the school building.

'Welcome, my pretty boy,' Jim whispered and slowly climbed down from the desk, straightening his back. When he languidly drew himself up to his full height he very much gave the impression of a peacock ruffling his feathers. And opening his arms wide in a welcoming gesture he added for everybody to hear:

'Welcome to my kingdom.'

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**A/N** For the sake of the storyline John, Sherlock, Jim, Sebastian, Sarah, Molly, Sally etc. are roughly the same age. Mrs Hudson is Mrs Hudson (agewise :) and Lestrade as the headmaster is a bit older, obviously.

Please tell me what you think? Reviews are a much loved reward ... Thank you so much! JJ


	2. Allies

**Here comes the second (much longer) chapter! **

**Enjoy reading!**

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**Allies ...**

Gregory Lestrade, headmaster of Lewisham Hall, Independent School For Boys and Girls, flicked through the file his secretary Rose had handed him. It was a thick file with reports from no less than four respectable schools in England. They all had tried and, judging by the overall tone of these reports, failed to instill discipline, respect and a sense of order into the young man sitting in front of his impressive desk.

'Sherlock ...' Mr Lestrade started, but casually finished leafing through the last few pages before he looked up and faced his new student. 'I hope you don't mind, but it's our school policy to call all our students by their first name, even the senior ones like you.'

He smiled to underline what he had said, but no reaction was to be had from this boy, just an unwavering, slightly unnerving gaze out of bright, piercing eyes. When Mr Lestrade cleared his throat in an unconscious response to this impassiveness it was a sound like an exclamation mark.

'Sherlock! - I'll be frank with you. You have been sent here by your parents, and they have made it quite clear that Lewisham is the last place they'll try.'

A slight curling of the corners of the boy's lips, something like a moue of distaste at the mention of his parents, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving Lestrade in doubt if he had even seen it.

'Believe me Sherlock, I've seen a lot of reports in my professional life, but this is quite an impressive file we have here,' Lestrade patted the light red cardboard file in his lap, picked it up and leaned forward to carefully place it on his desk, just out of reach. He gestured to it, 'I'll tell you what we'll do, though. We'll just ignore it -' Sherlock looked up at that and a glimmer of something like interest lit up those pale eyes. 'This file contains your past, Sherlock. I am not interested in that. Here, in Lewisham Hall we will build your future and I will judge you on account of your achievements here only.'

The spark in the boy's eyes died. 'How infinitely clever,' Sherlock Holmes said in a surprisingly low voice, lifting his left eyebrow a fraction. A tiny gesture, but one expressive enough to make the overall impression of utter boredom and impassiveness complete. 'I guess you'd expect me to be thankful?'

Lestrade, seasoned in numerous discussions with lazy, obstinate students and overprotective and over-demanding parents, refused to rise to the bait. 'Why, yes! That would actually be an appropriate response!' he said, opening his arms wide to underline his good intentions, and graced Sherlock with a flashing smile of the sort that had Rose and various female members of the teaching staff secretly swooning over him. Sherlock held his gaze, but otherwise did not respond to the friendliness he was offered. After what seemed a very long second, he fixed his gaze to a point slightly to the left of Lestrade's face, thus trying to convey the scorn he felt for his new headmaster.

Lestrade neither minded his provocative impassiveness, the blatant derision nor the lull in their conversation and took the opportunity to study the young man. If this Sherlock Holmes thought he was provoked by his demeanour he would prove him wrong, he was not disturbed by any of those games, no, not in the least. After all Gregory Lestrade was an experienced teacher and better in sitting through an awkward silence than anyone else he knew.

Leaning back Lestrade let his eyes roam over this very young, fresh and pale, but admittedly handsome face. Sherlock Holmes possessed a kind of strange, ethereal attractiveness, which was quite appealing. His angular face was dominated by sharp cheekbones, a full mouth and this pair of amazingly bright and piercing eyes which could hold Lestrade's gaze without shying away. The only indicator that he might indeed feel a trifle awkward in this situation was an almost imperceptible shifting in his chair, followed by the steepling of his fingers underneath his chin. It was a very adult and superior pose, but it seemed natural and fitted his aloofness and overall cerebral appearance.

But there was something else which was absolutely striking and that was the sparkling intelligence which gleamed in those eyes, an intelligence which belied all the bad marks and exasperated comments he had been showered with in the last reports. Those reports had eagerly painted the picture of someone who was equally lazy as he was obstinate. In fact, a hell of a student, judging by the fiery character study his last headmaster had felt inclined to add.

Very early on in his career Lestrade had made it one of his principles as a teacher never to judge a book by the cover, and he was willing to give anybody the benefit of the doubt. But - despite all his good intentions - some nagging feeling remained, because, boy, this Sherlock Holmes sure looked like trouble. As well as being a 'show-off' and a 'lazy know-all' as he had been labelled in this said character study, he would undoubtedly stir up the hitherto quite homogenous senior class with his seemingly untouchable and unreachable attitude.

Lestrade sat forward again, trying hard to suppress a sigh. And on the spur of the moment he decided to forget all other people's judgements and rely entirely on his own common sense. Maybe he was wrong, maybe his hopes were unfounded, but he felt more confident than not that this unusual boy would not disappoint him.

'Well, Sherlock.' Lestrade eventually broke the silence which was slowly growing cold and stale. 'My notes tell me that you will be in Mr Henslow's class. As you know we have afternoon lessons, every day except Friday, so they have ...' Mr Lestrade swivelled around in his leather chair to study the timetables pinned to a huge wall chart. 'They have history now. I think it best you skip this lesson as it's only ...' he checked his watch, 'Twenty minutes left. Instead I will give you into the capable hands of our matron Mrs Hudson. She will show you to your room. You'll lodge together with ...' again he swivelled around, this time to the left and sorted through some papers on a small shelf. 'Hang on ... it is a room for two actually, but it's currently not occupied so you will have the extraordinary pleasure of residing alone!'

Another dazzling smile was sent into Sherlock's direction, but still no reaction became visible on that angular and pale face. Lestrade's smile died, just a little.

'Right, I suggest you unpack and we will see you for dinner at half past six. You can meet your classmates then.' He got up, thus indicating their little conversation was over, and walked around the desk to open the door to the anteroom. 'Rose, dear. Could you please call Mrs Hudson? Sherlock needs to be shown around and taken to his room.'

'Of course, Mr Lestrade.'

oOo

John had entered the school building through the back door, following the new boy at a safe distance. But when he reached the grand entrance hall, he was nowhere to be seen. John checked his watch, he was now twenty minutes late, and for a second he pondered the possibility of skipping boring Henslow's history lesson completely. Only the thought of yet another missed lesson adding up to his already impressive catalogue of sins urged him on.

When he opened the door to the west wing and walked down the hallway he could hear the racket in the class room from afar. A cacophony of whoops and shrieking laughter, discernible among them Henry's aggravating shriek, and Seb's annoying drawl followed by the giggly hysterics of Jane and some other girls.

With any other class he would have thought no teacher was present, but this kind of noise was the normal state of affairs for old Henslow. When the teacher's voice boomed, trying to rise over the noise, he knew he had been right, he was indeed present, a circumstance the students apparently had chosen to pointedly ignore.

John opened the door to 1.12 and entered. Immediately the room fell silent, and eighteen pairs of eyes turned to him. The sudden silence was so deafening that Mr Henslow turned away from the blackboard where he had been noting down historical facts and figures, quotes and exercises for the class to revise for the upcoming finals, and glanced at the door in an irritated fashion.

'Mr John Watson!' He said, glad to have found somebody to anchor his ever-growing confusion and exasperation to. 'What outstanding circumstance do we owe the memorable honour of your presence?'

This earned him a giggle from some students and a smug triumphant smile began to spread over his rather tired features. He would be damned if he could not vent his anger somewhere!

'Afternoon, Mr Henslow,' John said good-naturedly. Ignoring the teacher's irony and refusing to rise to the bait, he slouched to the back of the room to his desk. Once seated he smiled benignly at his teacher who harrumphed and opened his mouth to cut this insolent John Watson down to the quick with a scathing remark when the racket rose to another high making it impossible for him to cut through.

Henslow narrowed his eyes at the mass of noise in front of him. Of course - this impertinent Jim was the leader of the pack. Nothing he could do about it then, and Walter Henslow, who had learned not to cross this particular student the hard way this schoolyear, fairly deflated, anger and frustration gushing out of him in one long drawn-out breath. With tired eyes he watched his buzzing students for a moment before he sighed and turned back to the board, muttering to himself, 'I really don't know why I still bother with this insolent lot.'

'You should thank me, John!' Jim said in a low voice and looked at him, narrowing his lizard eyes, demanding his attention. John turned, slowly, aware that despite the noise and the apparent chaos in the classroom all eyes and ears were focused on this little exchange in the back row.

'Whatever for, James?' John asked, still smiling, and leaned back casually on the hard wooden chair.

'I have saved you from Mr Henslow, don't you agree? Saved you from another reprimand in your impressive black book. Surely that's worth a little reward?' Jim smirked and caught the admiring gazes of Henry and Sebastian who had turned around to follow the exchange.

'Nobody asked you to, James. I can fend for myself and I certainly never _ever_ need you.' John felt the need to get up and to put some distance between himself and this unbearable Jim. Without paying his teacher any heed, he walked to a desk in the second row. Only one of the two chairs was occupied.

'Sally?' He asked and pointed to the empty chair next to her.

'Hey, John!' She turned to him and smiled, open and friendly. A quick pat to the chair next to her indicated he was welcome to join her. With one last glance at Jim who was fairly slouching in his chair now, a cheeky grin plastered to his face, he sat down next to Sally, trying to listen to Mr Henslow droning on, trying to concentrate, trying to force the image of the boy he had seen to the back of his mind.

oOo

'Here we are, dear,' Mrs Hudson unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish, indicating to Sherlock that he should enter, and when he did not do so immediately, she fairly ushered him in, waving her hands a trifle impatiently in front of her face. 'In you go. In you go!' Without hesitation she stepped into the bright, but rather stark and utilitarian room behind him. 'Now, what do you think?'

'It's very nice, Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock politely delivered the expected answer. Relieved to finally get rid of the luggage he dropped his heavy holdall onto the floor with a barely suppressed sigh and placed the box of books on the desk.

Mrs Hudson had taken him on an extended tour of the school, acquainting him with everything she deemed important for a newcomer, from the dining to the laundry room before finally taking him to his room on the second floor in the boy's wing. All the while she had exhibited a chatty, cheery friendliness, accentuated by a fierce sense of humour.

To his surprise Sherlock had felt no desire whatsoever to contradict or alienate this buzzing and admittedly very pleasant matron. Quite astoundingly he had managed to relax in her proximity, had even been able to let his guard down a bit. And if he had learned anything at the other useless schools he had gone to, then that it was always useful to have an ally.

'Right, my dear! I'll leave you to it now. You should try and settle in a bit.' Mrs Hudson clasped her hands in front of her chest and looked at Sherlock. 'Dinner is at half past six in the dining room. You will eat with your classmates in the larger room, the seniors' room.' She lifted an admonishing finger, 'There's no way of skipping meals, my dear. I will keep my eye on you, because frankly, and I hope you don't mind my saying that, you could use a bit of meat on your bones. I'll be keeping my eye on you, young man, and don't try to go behind my back!' She paused and studied this _young man_ in front of her. He reminded her of her own son at this age, that little rascal, and despite her strict demeanour a smile crept into her eyes, softening her words. 'As long as you're polite and honest, my dear, you will not get into trouble with me. One last thing, though. Remember, I am your matron, not your housekeeper! You do your laundry yourself and you keep your room spick and span!'

'Of course, Mrs Hudson. This won't be a problem as I won't be here for long anyway,' Sherlock said, carefully trying to make it sound noncommittal, but his effort fell somewhat short.

'Oh dear ... You did come here alone, didn't you? Where's your family? It's highly unusual for students to arrive entirely alone, you know!' Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue, expressing her disapproval.

Sherlock frowned - _Why would she ask that? How could she know? - _Of course! As matron of such a prestigious school she would make it her duty to know virtually everything there was to know about her charges. She must have seen him arriving, sneaking in through the back door - alone.

_Interesting! She is a very attentive lady indeed_

On the spur of the moment Sherlock decided to test the water because he wanted, no, he needed to know if she would be a friend or foe to him in the coming weeks.

'My parents have lost interest in me and Mycroft, my brother, strictly refused to do more than organising the trip. Meaning he generously instructed our driver to take me to the station. I came here on my own, Mrs Hudson, and I prefer it this way.'

'No, but it is a shame, Sherlock! Family is all we have in the end! You'll see!'

He fixed his bright blue eyes on her kind face and slowly, enunciating every syllable very carefully, he said. 'I very much doubt it, Mrs Hudson.'

He could see the emotions his words evoked flickering over her face and he could read her reaction as clearly as if she had voiced it aloud - _How sad! What a sad, lost boy_ - But she was an experienced matron and fairly good in hiding her feelings, and in an instant her cheery matron personality was firmly back into place.

'Dear, everything will work out fine for you! I'm sure of that!' She warmly smiled at him in an attempt to see this handsome boy's face lighten up. 'I'll see you later, Sherlock.'

Turning away Mrs Hudson patted him on the arm in a motherly fashion and it was the first friendly touch Sherlock had received in months. Stunned by the friendliness a stranger was able to give him when his own family was not, he nodded and closed the door behind the retreating figure of his matron. Friend, definitely friend and not foe, Sherlock thought, and this was as close to a comforting thought he had been in the last few months.

Finally alone in this whirlwind of a day, Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was almost five, still a lot of time to kill before he could go down and meet the others. Not that he was eager to do so, as his classmates were probably boring and obvious airheads, driven by hedonism and hormones, very likely only topped in their stupidity by the teachers of this institution, bland and narrow-minded as most specimens of their profession were. Of course, he knew very well that there was no way around this boring social interaction, so best get it out of the way as soon as possible.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and turned on his heels, taking in the totality of the room. There was not much to it, and so he walked over to the beds, chose the one closer to the window and sat down on it. Burying his head in his hands he exhaled through his mouth a few times, in an attempt to breathe out the uneasy feeling that had never entirely left him since he had entered the school compound. Trying to breathe through the nagging sense of failure that had gripped him in the last hours, trying to find a way to come to terms with the situation he found himself in.

_God!_ - Mrs Hudson's intuition had been spot-on. He was indeed a sad and lost boy as his family had basically abandoned him, had given up on him. That he found himself here was owed solely to the fact that neither his parents, who had gone on an extended cruise in the Caribbean, nor Mycroft, who was busy forging bonds in Cambridge, had neither found the time nor the will to look after him at home. Leaving him alone at the manor had been no option whatsoever, for various reasons really, one of them being a _distasteful_ incident involving experiments with various drugs at his last school. He snorted mirthlessly when he realised that his family's indifference was basically the reason why he found himself here in Lewisham for the final weeks of his school career.

_Career!_ - Now that was a misnomer if he had ever heard one. He was hopeless in school, everybody knew that, everybody told him that. Of course, they all overlooked the fact that he was just plain bored, and nobody had ever made the effort to look behind his mask of cold and snarky indifference.

Sherlock let himself fall backwards onto the too soft and narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. It was painted in a neutral off-white, the colour already flaking in places. He slowly turned his head to the side, taking in the rest of the room dominated by the two narrow beds, one large desk fit for two students, a large wardrobe and two smallish chest of drawers. There was not an ounce of individuality in this room, it was like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted upon with the personality and quirks and tastes of the occupant.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the boring conformity and sighed when he thought how much effort he would have to put into this room to make it bearable. So much effort, and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to, if it was worth the trouble. The school year was almost over after all, his _school career_ was almost over, so why for God's sakes should he make this bare room habitable?

He let his eyes take in the rest of the room, slowly scanning the bare and dusty shelf, the empty wall next to the entrance, and then moved on to a door next to the wardrobe that he had not registered so far - _Another door! - _Sherlock sat up abruptly_ Surely this must lead to the bathroom!_ - Thank God, he had his private facility as it would spare him the humility of parading half-naked in front of pubescent, hormone-driven boys ready to snatch the towel away to satisfy their vulgarity. A shudder ran down Sherlock's spine when he thought back to incidents of this kind in his last school.

He checked his watch again, it was still too early for dinner, but he really could not be bothered to unpack and to inject his personality into the room so he just fell back onto the bed, closed his eyes and waited for the time to pass.

Minute after minute after minute.

When he eventually heard the bells chime half past six, he hesitantly got up. Without bothering to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror he straightened his jacket and with an uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach he left the room.

It was time to meet the others.

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**A/N** Thank you very much for reading. And a big thank you to all who alerted, favoured and reviewed. Your reactions and comments really mean a lot to me. Please keep it up!

JJ


	3. and Enemies

**... and Enemies**

The dining room was not even half-full yet, and Sherlock, weary and unwilling to communicate, chose an empty table close to the entrance, thus hoping to minimise his unavoidable exposure to curious glances. He would never have admitted it, but he felt apprehensive, and consequently schooled his face into the most indifferent and dismissive expression he could muster.

He frowned when he took in what seemed to be the usual procedures here at Lewisham Hall. Apparently students were not expected to queue for their meals, but dinner was being served, in fact it was already on the table waiting for hungry students to tuck in. He could not have said why exactly, but Sherlock felt slightly annoyed, and this privilege for the older students didn't sit quite well with him.

With an impatient click of the tongue he leaned forward, reaching for the potatoes, when a hand clamped around his shoulder in a vicelike grip. The atmosphere changed almost immediately even before he heard the words -'This is _my_ table' - whispered coldly into his ear.

Sherlock turned around, instinctively trying to lean away from the sudden coldness, and looked into two dark eyes.

'Problem?' he asked, a quick motion sideways freeing him from this unwanted touch. Undaunted, he continued, gesturing towards the table. 'I neither see a reservation card nor a name tag or any other conventionally used means of personalising this table. So tell me, how can this table be yours?'

'It is because _I_ say so!'

'Really?' Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, a gesture his opponent obviously did not appreciate. 'And what makes you think I would even be remotely interested in what you say?'

'Well, you are new, and therefore I give you the benefit of the doubt, but in future you _will_ be interested in what I say... because _I_, ' he opened his arms wide and with a smug smile on his pale face, made even more so by his coal-black hair, he indicated the dining room and everything beyond - 'I run this entire place. Now rethink the situation you find yourself in and you will, undoubtedly, come to the safe conclusion that you will do as I say.'

'Oh, will I?'

'Yes - You will!'

'Well, I have to correct you in your assumption,' Sherlock fixed his intense eyes on him. And in an attempt to wipe that frankly aggravating sneer off his face with carefully pronounced syllables, he said very slowly. 'Now _you_ listen to _me_! I have _no_ intention whatsoever of getting up and sitting somewhere else.'

The boy took a quick step backwards then, almost stumbling, before he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared at him. For a moment Sherlock was more than certain he would lose control which only seemed to run skin-deep, but what happened next utterly surprised him. After a few seconds of tense silence he just shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Oh well!'

And in a very eery fashion his face underwent a complete change from one split-second to the other. Where there had been an almost reptilian menace and venom before, there was nothing but childish goodwill now. A deep furrow appeared between Sherlock's brows and puzzled he leaned back to study this rather confusing specimen of a student. Until now he had harboured the firm belief that it was possible to predict people's behaviour by observing them very closely and yet - here was somebody who might prove him wrong.

Sherlock continued to study this boy as he pulled back the chair and sat down next to him, extending his legs comfortably, a study of ease and relaxation. Unlike a few moments ago he was apparently wholly unconcerned by the fact that Sherlock was sitting at _his table_ and occupied _his seat_. A very confusing character indeed he was, and being so close to him Sherlock felt uncomfortable.

Sherlock glanced at him sideways to complete the fleeting impressions he had gathered so far. This boy was his age, very athletic, not as tall and as skinny as Sherlock himself, but nonetheless he seemed to possess a kind of wiry and strong and almost overpowering presence. And quite disturbingly, he exuded - even now, in obvious good mood - a morose malevolence and a bad temper fiendishly combined with a kind of superficial and blinding charm.

Sherlock made a mental note to steer clear of him.

Now was evidently not the moment to put a distance between them, though, as this boy clearly had decided otherwise. 'Jim Moriarty. Hi!' He casually extended his hand, grinning, and Sherlock was left no choice, but to shake it.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'You're new here, Sherlock, so I will let your behaviour pass this once, but next time you'll do what I say!'

Sherlock freed his hand from Jim's grip and chose to overhear the implicit threat. He had no intention whatsoever of doing what Moriarty said, had no intention of becoming his friend, his enemy or worse his _pet_.

No, he would simply ignore this Jim Moriarty.

Exhibiting blatant disinterest Sherlock turned his attention back to his plate. He quirked an exasperated eyebrow when he realised that the potatoes had gone cold and covered them with a sea of steaming gravy to make them edible.

'Did you listen t...' Jim started, still willing to get an affirmative reply from him, but dried up in mid-sentence. Sherlock looked up from his plate and saw that Jim had narrowed his eyes like a predator focusing on his prey. He followed Moriarty's gaze and saw a young boy, maybe ten or eleven crossing the dining room, laughing and entirely unconscious of being watched.

Sherlock's eyes followed him to a table where four seniors, two boys and two girls, were eating and chatting animatedly. The young boy approached one of them and when this senior looked up, Sherlock's and his eyes met. The boy, friendly eyes, sandy hair and an open, pleasant face, smiled as if he knew him. This unexpected friendly gesture only served to add to Sherlock's confusion.

Sherlock was saved from answering this smile by the young boy demanding the older boy's attention. They were laughing, sharing a few jokes and then a book was exchanged, a warm smile shared, before the younger boy turned and made to leave the dining room. All this happened in a matter of twenty, maybe thirty seconds. When the boy passed their table on his way out, a sharp metallic voice startled Sherlock and forced the boy to stop in his tracks. 'Carl Powers!'

The boy turned to them and faced Jim Moriarty, a smile still dancing across his face and no fear visible. Sherlock frowned - _He is not afraid of him at all_ - _Interesting!_

'Carl Powers! I think I have made myself clear last time that you are not allowed in this dining room. It's for seniors only! You, Carlito, are NOT one of us.'

The boy just smiled, 'Aww - Jim. I've just been a sec.' He pointed over his shoulder, 'I had to talk to John.'

'Still.' Moriarty got up, drawing himself up to his full height, obviously trying to take full advantage of his physical superiority. 'If _I_ don't want you in here, you don't come! Is that understood?'

Carl Powers passed the book this John had given him from one hand to the other, but it was not, as Sherlock observed, a sign of nervousness. No, it was a sign of restlessness, he simply wanted to be somewhere else as he clearly had better things to do.

'Come on, I didn't mean no harm, Jim ... See you!' and he laughed - or laughed at him? Sherlock was not entirely sure - turned around and skipped out of the room. Intrigued Sherlock turned his attention back to Moriarty and saw that he could barely control himself. Another senior who had sat down opposite them felt the need to comment, 'Man, this baby sure showed you, Jim.'

'Shut up, Hen. Nobody asked you!' Jim hissed, obviously using every ounce of self-control he could muster not to smash plates and glasses. Slowly he sat down again, an inwardly fuming heap of menace, fixing his narrowed eyes on the retreating form of little Carl Powers.

Sherlock could feel the heat rising from Moriarty, could read the barely hidden satisfaction on 'Hen's' face, heard the sniggering and whispering going on behind their backs and he realised there and then that Moriarty was a very dangerous person indeed.

This was not good, and not what Sherlock had envisioned for his last weeks as a student. He wanted to be left alone and not become part of a feud, or be involved in a power play of some sort. Trying to finish his meal as quickly and unimpeded as possible, and with the intention of putting distance between himself and this blasted situation immediately after, he shut out all surrounding noises and withdrew back into himself.

Thus he did not notice that John had finished dinner and that, when he passed Sherlock, he smiled at him trying to catch his eye. Although Sherlock looked up, he showed no reaction, and so John walked straight on, leaving the dining room none the wiser as to who this new boy was.

oOo

Sherlock tried his utmost to remain calm now, still, not to fall back into a state of agitation and restlessness.

It was a hard, almost impossible task as his body was screaming for a hit, was screaming for motion. After having paced the length of his room for what seemed hours, Sherlock had finally summoned all his will-power to stand still.

Exhausted he was leaning against the window pane, looking out into dusk, forcing his mind to take over by giving his brain fodder, desperately trying to coax his body into submission.

- _Two boys over at the pond, talking animately, friends, close friends_ - _Mrs Hudson chatting to a staff member, friendly, teasing_ - _A girl coming back from an illicit encounter, judging by the state of her clothes, she looks unhappy, agitated - and yes, now the boy follows her_ -

For a second Sherlock thought it was Moriarty and his body tensed involuntarily as if it was a radar, but then he relaxed when he saw he was mistaken.

- _Oh GOD, I need something_ - _Focus, focus!_ - _Little Carl, reading, over there on a bench_ -

And on and on he went, his eyes darting from one end of the lawn to the other, his mind greedily soaking up all the information, like a sponge, wanting to be saturated.

Oh, he knew full well that he had to wait until it was dark, or at least as good as dark. He also knew that he would not give in to his addiction here, in this room, his respect for Mrs Hudson was still very much intact.

- _But GOD, if it's not going to happen soon, I will smash this window, just to feel something different_ _than this craving_ -

After what seemed an eternity and what had been a real test of Sherlock's mental strength, he felt he could risk it and hurried through the empty corridors, looking for the back entrance. After dinner he had gone on a thorough recce, finding a few suitable spots.

He was heading for the nearest of them now - and God, how he craved a fag - _now_ - _quickly_. It had been afternoon when he had smoked the last one, hastily, cowering at the edge of the lawn before he had crossed it in full sight of the whole school - Ages ago!

Sherlock was barely through the door and round the corner, ducking into a secluded dark niche when he lit up and greedily took a lung-blackening drag. When the nicotine fully hit him, he closed his eyes in bliss. It was like a release, almost like an orgasm, and he fairly slumped against the still sun-warm stones of the wall.

His eyes flew open when he heard a low chuckle. Another point of light danced in the near darkness next to him. He had not been careful enough in his greed for a fag and had not checked whether he was alone or not. Without thinking he threw his cigarette to the ground, stabbed it out with the heel of his shoe and turned to go.

'No! Wait,' a pleasant voice pleaded. 'No need to go.'

Despite his strong desire to immediately flee to another of those dark, secluded places and have one more cigarette or maybe two, Sherlock stopped and turned around. He squinted to make out who had been the one to stop him, and when his eyes had adjusted enough to the near darkness, he could make out a boy of his own age, a bit shorter than him, casually leaning against the stone wall and smoking.

'I know you,' Sherlock said, slowly closing the distance between them. He came to a halt right in front of this boy, close, very close. 'You are John, aren't you?' he stated, entirely sure of himself.

If John felt threatened or uneasy because of his closeness he did not show it. He held his gaze unwaveringly and an amused little smile played around his lips. He nodded and Sherlock felt encouraged to continue.

'You gave little Carl Powers a book which rather annoyed James Moriarty. He does not like Carl, does not like you. He thinks he's the king of the school, assumes he's running it in fact.' Another nod. ' He tried to instill a feeling of inferiority in me the second he saw me. Oh, but he has a lot of enemies, people waiting to retaliate once he shows weakness. But up to date he manages to keep his reign intact.'

Sherlock took another step towards the shadow, because he wanted to, invading John's personal space recklessly, inhaling the smoke that escaped the other boy's nose and mouth.

'Well, not only does he not like you, John,' he whispered. 'He also sees his main opponent in you, am I right?'

John was silent for a moment, trying to channel his amazement and the tingling sensation spreading all over his body caused by the physical proximity of this boy. He found he had to clear his throat before he could answer.

'You are ... absolutely right. How can you possibly know all that? You've been here ... what? Half a day?'

Sherlock took a tiny step backwards, allowing John a bit more room to breathe.'I observed, John. I noticed and I drew my conclusions. All this was hardly a difficult deduction.'

'You got all this from one short encounter? This is outstanding!'

'That's not what people normally say.'

'What do people normally say?'

'Piss off!'

John chuckled again. He took one last drag of his cigarette and carefully extinguished it in a can he had brought with him. He then drew himself up to his full height and extended a hand, 'John Watson.'

Sherlock looked down at the extended hand, signifying a very formal and adult way of greeting - Now here was somebody who surprisingly, but genuinely awoke his interest - Still, there was something that was nagging at the back of his mind. 'You were the one who followed me this afternoon. Am I right?'

'Yes, that was me.' John conceded, sounding just a tiny bit embarrassed.

After a moment of indecisive silence a smile lit up Sherlock's entire face and he shook John's proffered hand. And matching John's formality he said, 'Glad to meet you, John Watson. The name's Sherlock Holmes.'

And his smile deepened that tiny bit more when he added, 'Care to smoke another one?'

* * *

**A/N**

**Note:** A fag is a British slang word for cigarette

Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, for all the alerts and favourites. I'm glad you like this universe, there's much more to come ...!

As always I'll be very happy to hear what you think! Thank you,

JJ


	4. Sherlock and John

**This is a quick update, but a shorter chapter. I hope the content will make up for the (relative) brevity because it describes the first, very intense and intimate moments between the boys ... Enjoy reading!**

* * *

**Sherlock and John - John and Sherlock**

Sherlock checked his watch, the bells would chime soon, once, twice - rude and shrill like every afternoon, calling all the students back from their lunch breaks, demanding them to leave their hideouts and come back to work.

Ignoring the imminence of that moment, Sherlock fished two cigarettes out of his packet, placed them between his lips and lit them. He took a greedy drag and coughed when the double dose of nicotine hit his lungs.

'Hey, you greedy bugger,' John complained and snatched one of the cigarettes away only to take an urgent drag himself. Sherlock's eyes followed John's fingers all the way to his mouth, saw them gracefully extending when his lips delicately took hold of the fag, saw the hollowing out of the cheeks and the narrowing of the eyes in a reaction to the bliss this forbidden pleasure brought him. Unconsciously Sherlock exhaled in time with John, and blinked, he had not even been aware that he had been holding his breath.

Being in close and intimate proximity to John, observing how he enjoyed a simple thing as a cigarette in such a sensual way, did something to Sherlock and he felt a blush creep up his neck. Thankfully his friend did not notice, and continued staring into the leafy canopy above their heads. After a moment John sighed, closing his eyes contently.

Sherlock continued smoking the last cigarette of their break, trying his utmost to simply enjoy it and let the moment not be tainted by what would await them once they joined the others. Flicking a shred of tobacco from his lips he stole another glance at John and smiled, a smile born of happiness and surprise, tinged with a small dose of anxiety and insecurity.

If anything this was as close to peace and bliss Sherlock ever had been, and he relished John's closeness, relished the secret they shared. He could not help the remnants of sadness and insecurity though, which stemmed from the fact that despite his outstanding deducing and people-reading abilities he was not entirely sure if John felt the same way around him.

On the third day of their friendship John had taken Sherlock to his secret hideout, and since then they had spent their lunch breaks together, sometimes lying in this natural mossy bed, whenever the unpredictable British weather would allow it, talking about nothing and their lives. Today they were lucky as it was sunny and warm for once and without even having to arrange it they had met underneath the old apple tree after lunch, arriving at it from different directions.

Too soon Sherlock turned onto his side, took the smouldering stub from John's fingers and leaned over him to extinguish both cigarettes in the can they had stashed near the gnarled roots of the old tree. Too soon, because he wanted to stay, wanted to prolong this moment alone with John, despite the nagging knowledge that they really should be going back to class. Not quite yet, though, they still had moments, minutes together, and he made sure to dedicate the precious remaining time to his scrutiny of John, more openly this time.

'What's the matter, Sherlock?' John eventually asked, his eyes still closed and Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, how perceptive John could be. 'Something on my face? A bloody spider?'

Sherlock lifted his hand and let his fingers hover very closely over John's forehead, his skin tingling with anticipation, his fingers itching to touch, to caress, to stroke, to be welcomed or denied, but then he just ghosted them over the tanned skin, barely touching, pretending. 'Yeah, a big black hairy one. Gone now.'

Sherlock frowned, when he realised how fast his heart was beating all of sudden, pounding hard against the inside of his chest and he was sure that John must hear it. He attempted to cover his agitation by glancing away and clearing his throat. Feeling the urge to get back onto safer ground, he stared ahead into the branches - full of small green apples, the leaves summery green and lush - to focus, to think about something else than John's tantalising closeness. Without thinking he blurted out the first thing that crossed his mind.

'What about Molly?'

'What about her?'

'How is it going between you?'

John opened his eyes and turned to Sherlock. 'Don't tell me you're suddenly interested in such _trivia_, Sherlock. You've never asked before. You saw her and me in the last two weeks and you were not terribly warm-hearted, I have to say. For God's sakes you barely talk to her!'

'Doesn't mean I'm not interested, you know. John, give me some credit, will you!'

John snorted. If he had learned anything in the two weeks and one day he knew Sherlock Holmes it was that he was _not_ interested in anything considered normal by his peers - lighthearted gossip, bragging about one's athletic or sexual prowess, boyfriends, girlfriends, stolen kisses, groping in the dark. He was as different as he was aloof and very careful to keep his distance.

John did not mind at all, though. These past two weeks had been a flurry of emotions, which was a paradox, really, when dealing with a person who tried to control emotions or to pay them no heed like Sherlock did. Nonetheless he was the most amazing friend John had ever had. Right from the word go Sherlock had been more than special for him and their connection, their bond, had been as instant as it had been obvious.

So much so that John's friends were making fun of them already - _When can we expect a happy anouncement?_ - and Molly had grown quieter and quieter and had more than once confronted John in her sweet and non-demanding way. John had laughed his friends' teasing away and had tried to deflect Molly - and himself - from the fact that he felt more and more distant to her since he had met Sherlock and basically spent every free minute with him.

With Sherlock, this fascinating, intelligent, wild, and beautiful creature ...

Still, he knew who he was, what he wanted and he was sure of himself, wasn't he?

And Sherlock? Well, from all John knew he guessed Sherlock could not care less about indelicate rumours or what other people thought about him, about _them_. A slight curling of the lips to indicate that the sometimes coarse remarks floating through the summery air of Lewisham Hall had indeed registered was the most expressive reaction one could expect from him.

'She's fine. We're fine - All is fine,' John eventually said, dragging his thoughts back to Sherlock's enquiry.

'Well, anything you say three times must obviously be true,' Sherlock drily remarked.

'You're an idiot!' John said and lightly punched him on his upper arm which earned him an indignant and whiny 'Ouch!'

John smiled and punched him again and again until Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it. John's smile deepened when he tried to free himself from his grip, but Sherlock held on and would not let go. John gazed at his friend and into his eyes and what he saw there made the smile die on his face.

Sherlock frowned and gradually loosened his grip on John's hand, giving him the choice to withdraw. John did not. He merely stared into those pale, mesmerising eyes, their colour usually oscillating between the palest blues, greens and silvery silvers, now, though, the colour was being slowly swallowed by darkly dilating pupils.

John was fascinated by what he saw and stilled completely to just look. Just as abruptly as he had become motionless he then felt the urge to break this stillness. Tentatively exploring he moved his fingers along Sherlock's slender digits, up and down, growing bolder after a moment, creating delicious friction. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and John intertwined their fingers, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. And when Sherlock opened his eyes again, John nodded.

Sherlock sat up, their hands still connected and leaned over John who sank back onto the mossy softness. John waited, waited for the inevitable to happen, willing the unthinkable to come true. Sherlock let his eyes wander over John's open face, shamelessly, now that he had been given the permission to look, registering the few tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, the dark blue eyes, even darker now, dominated by dilating pupils, the slightly parted lips, the lean face. The handsome details making up a beautiful whole.

Sherlock resented losing any more time and leaned down to brush his lips over John's. Carefully, questioningly. He felt a slight resistance, felt the fight in John, his loyalty for Molly fighting with his obvious attraction to him, and for a second he considered abandonding everything, not risking this first ever true friendship in his life for a bit of fun. Or was it more than that? Sherlock wanted so desperately to believe that John would be different to Trevor.

Slowly Sherlock turned the soft brushing of soft skin on soft skin into tender kisses, not pushing, still leaving him the choice, but then John lifted his head and intensified their kiss, and he let go of all worries and the last bit of restraint.

When John placed his hand at the nape of his neck and firmly twirled his fingers through his curls and exerted pressure to bring him closer, even closer, he moaned softly into John's mouth - _more, I want more_ - And in a swift and fluid motion he sat up and stradled him, feeling both their arousals doing so. He bent down to kiss him again and again and slowly started moving his hips against John, creating delicious and perfect friction in timing with his kisses, growing more confident, bolder, more demanding.

'Hang on,' John panted, breaking their heated kiss. Sherlock looked up, confused, his usually so pale face painted with a pinkish flush, his eyes dark and his lips plush and soft. John groaned when he took in the beauty that was Sherlock and plunged forward to claim those lips again, forgetting why he had stopped in the first place.

Here was the thrill! Here was the passion, _God_, here was the excitement he needed, he craved. _Jesus!_ - Kissing Sherlock was like nothing he had ever experienced before -

'It's just...' John gasped, 'I won't last ...' John moved against him, his arousal mounting with every well-timed thrust of Sherlock's trouser-clad hips. 'Sherl ... I'm almost ...'

Sherlock did not answer, but sealed his mouth with more kisses, his long fingers fumbling with his fly and when John understood, he helped him open his trousers, then Sherlock lifted his hips just long enough for John to unzip and open his own trousers wide enough to give them both access.

Sherlock was the one taking the lead and John lay back and let him make them both float to the edge. The first strokes were slow, almost shy and tentative, but soon all the leafy canopy and the stillness surrounding them heard was low moans and drawn-out gasps, intensifying, satisfying and finally fulfilling.

* * *

**A/N **

_Isn't this intimacy a bit sudden?_ you may ask - Well, I don't think so because a) at that age they would not dance around each other for weeks and b) they simply don't have that time because their school career will end in a few weeks and c) I wanted to show the strong connection/bond they have and which they cannot and would not want to escape.

So this was a very (and sudden :) _Johnlocky_ moment. I hope you liked it. There's more to come ... soon!

JJ


	5. Changes

**Changes**

Sherlock felt happily dazed, numb and surreal and had to glance repeatedly at the figure walking next to him to bring his floating mind back to earth. He extended his hand and tenderly placed it on John's neck, curling his fingers around his nape to anchor himself to this new reality. John glanced up at him, his dark blue eyes almost twinkling and smiled.

They had not said a word since leaving their hideout and now they were hurriedly walking back to the school building.

Almost in sight of the ground floor classrooms, but not quite, John stopped and forced Sherlock to look at him. On impulse he stood on tiptoe and kissed him, slow, reverently, a reminiscence of their earlier passion. Gently he weaved his fingers through the soft mass of hair, Sherlock's eager reactions urging him on - but before he crossed a boundary he broke their embrace, gulping for air, and took a step backwards, realising he would not be capable of coherent speech without the distance between them. 'Sherl ... I need to go to my room for a sec ... I'll join you in the lab.'

Without waiting for a reply he turned away and swiftly continued towards the main building, leaving Sherlock behind, flushed and feeling slighty empty and deprived of something he had not known he needed so desperately. This sudden emptiness made him shiver, but then he stood silent and motionless, only his eyes following John's progress across the lawn, until he had turned the corner and was gone.

o

John felt Sherlock's eyes on his back, like a piercing hot ray of sunshine, drawing him back, willing him to react. But John resisted and did not turn around, and when he had reached the building, turned the corner and knew he was finally out of sight, he slumped against the wall and exhaled.

'_Jesus_ - What have we done?'

He wiped his hands over his face in a gesture very John-like, but one slightly beyond his eighteen years.

_What have I done? - And why? - _

John scoffed when those ridiculous thoughts flickered across his mind -

_Who am I trying to fool here? - _

He knew bloody well why he had answered Sherlock's unspoken question, why he had let go of all restraints or qualms he might have harboured -

_God, that was so amazing, so thrilling ... kissing him ... _

Sherock and his bloody amazing face, and body, and eyes - When he fixed those pale eyes on John, he looked right through him, saw his soul laid bare, saw right down to his core. John was sure that he had read his yearning for him in the twiching of his lips and the fluttering of his eyelashes. Had seen what he meant to him in the tiniest of smiles. Had probably seen it there before John had even become aware of the possibilty of _Sherlock and John_.

So_, that's why_ - because he was attracted to this beautiful and extraordinary boy as he had never been attracted to anybody before.

_And now Sherlock is ... what is he now? My boyfriend? My lover?_

John's heart skipped a beat when he thought of what had happened and what it would mean in the long run and involuntarily his breathing grew ragged and he panted with the memory of the past twenty minutes. Hanging his head, his mind relived the flurry of sensations, images, smells - Oh, yes, there was nobody like him, nothing even remotely like him, he had never exerienced anything like it - Not only the thrill of his kisses and the sex, but the emotional connection he had felt to him from the very first moment, like a strong, strong, indestructible bond that had developed in a flash.

John buried his head in his hands, his mind racing on and on, and suddenly pleasure was teaming up with insecurity, happiness fighting for dominance with guilt. He winced at the almost bodily pain when his befuddled mind was cruel enough to bring Molly back into play. It felt as if his brain had hit the brakes full force all of a sudden, the impact forcing him to lift his head.

_Now - What about her? _

If this past half hour, no, the past two weeks had shown John anything, then that she was not _the one_. They had had fun together, she was a pleasure to be with, intelligent, warm-hearted and very beautiful and she would be a fantastic girlfriend for somebody else.

But today, more than any other moment since Sherlock had invaded his life, had forced him to realise that he did not love her, certainly not anymore, and maybe he never really had. Decent guy that he was, he knew that it had been utterly wrong to go behind her back, and he also knew that he had to tell her and to make a clean cut.

_Tonight, after dinner -_

Yes, it had to be soon, it had to be tonight, he instinctively knew that he could not wait any longer than that. Calmed down and tricked into a kind of complacency because he had reached a decision, he pushed himself away from the wall and checked his watch. Of course he was, _they_ were, late, but five minutes more or less did not matter now. Those few moments alone had done him good, he had needed a moment for himself before he could face the consequences of what they had done.

Feeling slightly better John entered the school building and took a circuitous route to the chemistry lab, certain that he could rely on Sherlock to come up with a convincing excuse for both of them.

o

Dr Anderson looked up from an experiment on the teacher's desk in the lab, 'Ah, Mr Holmes!' he gleefully said. His security glasses had slid down the narrow bridge of his nose, giving him the look of a flabberghasted penguin. 'Would you care to explain why you are so late?'

'I am sorry, Mr Anderson...'

'_Dr_ Anderson,' the teacher corrected him, knowing it was petty behaviour, but with those insolent students he needed all the reassurance he could find, even if it was in the deceptive stability of an academic title.

'_Dr _Anderson ...' Sherlock repeated, scorn audible in every syllable. The derision, obvious in his low voice, did not reach his face which remained impassive throughout this little exchange. 'Please do excuse me - and Watson - for being so late, but I had to take him to matron.' When he continued, speaking even lower, only Anderson and maybe the students in the front row could hear him. 'He had a sudden bout of migraine which needed the attention of an expert. As you might be aware John's migraines are accompanied by an aura, affecting his eyesight, making it impossible for him to stay alone. Thankfully Mrs Hudson could provide John with a potent enough painkiller, and I'm fairly certain he will be able to attend your invaluable chemistry lessons soon.'

Anderson knew when he was being made fun of, when he was being lied to, but he also knew that it was sometimes better to play along than making a complete fool of oneself.

This Holmes boy had quite a reputation, although as far as he knew, lying was not among the bad habits the school reports had attributed to him - Maybe he _was_ telling the truth? - Anderson was loath to come running to Mr Lestrade only to be told that he was in the wrong. No, he did not want to risk yet another public humilation - And after all Holmes knew very well that he could easily ask Mrs Hudson, so why should he be lying?

'All right, Holmes. Sit down,' Anderson pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with determination. It was a fruitless attempt to win back the upper hand. Dismissing Sherlock he turned to a girl in the front row, 'Now, Sally, where were we?'

Sally answered her teacher in a friendly way, helping him back on track, as she did so often and with a coy little smile aimed at the young man.

Accompanied by the curious glances of his peers Sherlock casually slinked to the back of the lab, to the last row to be precise where two chairs were still empty. Various girls giggled nervously as he passed them, trying to catch his eye. Sherlock did not react, not out of spite, but because he was entirely oblivious to the effect he had on the female members of the senior class.

But Jim Moriarty noticed. Oh, this Sherlock, this _Sherlock_ - he was like a delicious itch Jim desperately wanted to scratch, but could not reach, a disruption as tantalising as he was loathsome, and from across the room Jim focused on him, watched Sherlock's every move, registered every tiny motion, every emotion flickering across that not so pale face ...

_Hang on - He looks flushed, and he came alone - Where is Watson?_ - _Where have they gone to again?... And what have they been up to?_

Jim felt a dark shadow flap its wings and settle over him. Annoyed he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He paid no attention to Anderson droning on about acid binding and acid soluble chemicals. What ever for? He had no need to take notes either, had his minions for those jobs. In class he could rely on Sebastian to take notes just as he could rely on Henry to write his essays.

The class had fallen quiet again, following Anderson's explanations more or less attentively, the attention being correlated to individual interests and ambitions, when there was a confident knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply somebody opened the door half a second later.

'Watson!' Anderson exclaimed, a bit tired, no, fed up with being disturbed yet again. 'Come in, come in. Are you feeling any better now? The migraine gone?'

Anderson winced inwardly when he realised that he had said too much, but studied Watson closely anyway. He seemed a tiny bit uncomfortable, but this impression was gone in an instant and John's face became friendly, but unreadable, giving away nothing.

'Yes, still a bit woozy, horrible migraine that was, just horrible.' He lightly shook his head, convincingly flinching as if the motion made him dizzy once again. 'The worst thing is it always affects my vision, you know, Dr Anderson.'

John squinted theatrically, and smiled his trademark warm-hearted smile that made him so popular with everyone.

'Sit down already, will you!' Anderson sounded peeved, and once again turned to Sally for a prompt where they had stopped. At least there are some students who show a bit of interest in what I'm doing, he thought and rewarded the lovely girl with a smile.

Jim watched John doing as he was told, walking to the back of the lab towards Sherlock who had his strange eyes fixed on him. Following the little exchange between Anderson and John Sherlock had smiled like somebody entirely smitten, and now he followed John's progress towards him very attentively. Jim frowned, _no_, no ... that was not what it was ... No, he looked at him like somebody who was thrilled to bits to see him, his face for once unguarded and open, and everybody could see that he cared, cared an awful lot.

Jim's face split into a truly wicked and repilian smile when it registered what all this meant. Being late, covering for each other, gazing at each other with those lovey-dovey eyes?

_Bingo! _

Instinctively Jim leaned forward, closing his eyes, listening to the happiness inside him playing a gentle melody. He felt elated, chosen, special - he wanted to sing on the top of his lungs!

Here he was, happily minding his own business, and without any doing on his part he had been given the perfect ammunition to use against _pretty_ Sherlock Holmes and this awful Watson.

oOo

Sherlock could do nothing but staring out of the window. He was waiting for John, waiting for him to come back from his talk with Molly, the inevitable, the descisive conversation he had insisted they have. If he was honest, waiting was not the appropriate term for what he was doing, or rather what his mind and body subjected him to. He was yearning, longing, his heart beating in his throat, an emotion akin to fear fluttering uncomfortably in his chest. Sherlock was not sure if he liked feeling this way.

Leaning his forehead against the cool window pane Sherlock kneaded his fingers, restlessness and anticipation flowing through his body.

They had not talked a lot since this afternoon as there had always been students milling about them. They had not touched, not kissed as John had been somewhat restrained and reluctant. Too reluctant and too distant for Sherlock, he found that he could not take it and had skipped dinner for a cigarette in the school compound as a consequence. He had not seen John since then, and now he was waiting, anxious and insecure.

o

Molly and John had chosen the after-school-hours emptiness of the rugby field for their talk, walking close to each other in the fading daylight, but not touching. John had his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, denying himself even the possibility to touch.

'What happened?' Molly asked, her voice firm and quivering only the slightest bit.

John glanced at her, at her beautiful profile, the soft, pale skin, her maroon hair swept away from her face and held together in a pony-tail. She did not seem nervous, but there was an air of resignation and sadness about her.

'I don't think I have to tell you. Molly. You know, don't you,' John softly said.

Molly nodded, tears stinging her eyes. 'Yes, I do ...'

John heard the tears in her voice, but he did not dare looking at her, as her distress mede him feel like a traitor.

'Over the last two weeks you have been growing more and more distant and absent. You smiled at me, when I talked to you, but you were not listening. Not to me, anyway - I was like a stand-in for somebody else ...'

Her voice broke and John's determination to keep a distance cracked and crumbled. He wrapped his arms around her and held her, comforted her, but the close contact only corroborated what he had known already.

There was no feeling left for Molly, no love, no desire, only pity - she was no longer in his heart.

o

It was slowly growing dark, and on top of his anxiousness, another, more familiar craving took hold of Sherlock. He was willing to fight it as long as he was able to because he wanted to be in when John would come. He finally wanted to see him, caress him, kiss him. More, he wanted him to stay.

'Damn it,' he cursed, when he could not withstand any longer, but was loath to be forced to break his vow so quickly. It was no use, though, his respect for Mrs Hudson had to stand back for his feelings for John. He fingered a cigarette out of his packet and lit it. His cheeks hollowed out when he greedily dragged the smoke down into his lungs, and he quickly opened the window to let the smoke out.

It calmed him somewhat, smoking, but the strain was still strong and once he had finished the cigarette, he felt the need for more distraction. Still standing in the open window he closed his eyes, his hands fluttering nervously in front of his face -

_Something, something, something - I need something to_ ...

'Oh!' he exclaimed and clasped his hands together when he realised what would help him stay sane. Recently he had perfected a memory technique which allowed him to stow away a huge amount of information. All he had to do was to build a virtual room and place the memories on a chair, let's say, or in a shelf and then he could retrieve a particular piece of data whenever he was in need of it. Theoretically this also meant that he would never forget it, he just had to find his way back. Quite a few rooms were 'furnished' already in what he had dubbed his Mind Palace.

A smile flickered across his features when he sat down crosslegged on his bed, steepling his hands beneath his chin in his thinking pose, and closing his eyes he concentrated on opening the door to yet another room. This time it was a big, a very bright and friendly room. The first thing to make it his own was to apply a sign to the door, a cardboard panel covered with his spidery handwriting.

A sign, simply labelled 'John'.

o

Molly sobbed against John's shoulders, everything that she had held back pouring out of her in that moment, all the grief, the lost hopes, the pain. John was there for here, but he was not moved.

'Tell Sherlock I hate him,' Molly said, barely audible.

'I will, Molly. I think he will appreciate the sentiment.'

Molly snorted, despite herself. 'I'm sure he will. He is a strange person. I really don't know what you see in him.'

John let go of her then, 'But I do, and that's all I need to know.'

He was hurt by her words and could not help it that he sounded peeved. He was surprised how much her resentment stung and made to go, but he could not end it that way, and so he relented.

'I'm sorry, Molly. Sorry for ... just now... and sorry for everything. I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me. I'd never thought that something like this would happen to me ...'

'What do you mean? A boy falling in love with a boy?'

'No - Yes ... I don't know,' John cleared his throat, a nervous habit, and smiled insecurely at Molly.

o

Two, three raps against the door startled him. Sherlock looked up, dazed, slowly coming back from his deep trance. He blinked, another knock. He untangled his long legs and winced when the circulation kicked back in, making his legs all tingly and weak.

Sherlock hastened to the door and yanked it open, 'John! At last. I've been...' The words died on his lips when he stared into the smiling face of Jim Moriarty.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you so much for your comments and every other reaction I got so far for this fic!

I hope you enjoyed this (more transitional) chapter as well.

JJ


	6. Disruption

**Disruption**

'It's you,' Sherlock said, his face clouding over.

Astonished he noticed how hard it proved to hide the disappointment that flooded him. He shifted from one foot onto the other, nervously, and stared at Jim Moriarty in defiance, eventually adopting a stance that made him appear bulkier and let him tower over the boy who was a good head shorter than him.

On impulse Sherlock closed the door to his room, effectively defining the public space of the corridor as the venue of this unwanted encounter. It was evident that he had no intention of letting Jim Moriarty enter his personal realm.

'Yes, it's me,' Jim smiled and opened his arms in a gesture indicating benevolence. Clearly he was not to be deterred from what he wanted by Sherlock's dismissive reaction. 'Why are you so surprised?'

Sherlock scoffed, 'Well ... Jim ... there are various reasons. Let me just name a few. One, it is late and you should not be here. Two, we have never had what ordinary people call a conversation, we never ever _converse_. Three, and I'm sure you will agree on that, it is safe to claim that we are no friends.'

Jim listened, nodding and still smiling, very relaxed indeed, his body language conveying openness and ease. 'Maybe it's time we did something about ... us ... not being friends?'

He lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and Sherlock noticed that this, as every other gesture so far, was a cleverly and carefully chosen one. He was willing to convince Sherlock that this was indeed a harmless exchange of friendly words among peers and - possible - friends.

Sherlock quickly scanned Jim's face. The menace which usually surrounded him like buzzing flies was surely there, it was merely well-hidden now, lurking beneath the thin layer of his pale skin, but ready to break through at any given moment. Outwardly there was no sign of it, though, there was nothing hostile or sinister in his smile, only a rather weak and tepid friendliness.

Sherlock frowned, he was astounded by Jim Moriarty's ability to dissemble, to change colour and mood like a chameleon. But this charade could not deflect him from the impression that there must be a hidden agenda behind this surprise visit. He was less certain, though, if he should despise or admire Jim for the ability to hide it so thoroughly.

'Come on, Jim. What do you really want?'

Jim shrugged his shoulders, 'Nothing special. Why don't you just relax?' He weaved his fingers through his short black hair, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. 'As I said, I think we should be friends. We could start by having a talk someday. Just the two of us. Might be interesting, don't you think?'

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest, creating a barrier between them. He narrowed his eyes, 'Why would I want to talk with you? Alone?'

'Because I think we have a lot in common, Sherlock ... you and me.' Jim closed the gap between them, completely ignoring the unapproachable posture Sherlock had adopted. Standing right in front of Sherlock he tilted his head upwards in a poor imitation of intimacy, as if leaning in for a kiss. 'We are both different, we are both - _special_.'

Sherlock was loath to move as it would open the oportunity for Jim to enter his room, and so he stood his ground, staring down into Jim's dark eyes, so close to him, too close for comfort.

'Think about it, Sherlock!' Jim whispered, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin. 'I know how you feel - I know you must be bored here. And _I_ can offer you distraction.'

The air seemed to shift towards the cold when Jim came even closer and his eyes fluttered closed. Like an animal he sniffed Sherlock's skin, inhaling the scent of the forbidden cigarette still clinging to him. Sherlock needed all his self-control not to push him away.

Jim felt the struggle going on in Sherlock and chuckled softly when he opened his eyes again. A smile flew across his face, and he looked up at Sherlock like a puppy, obviously waiting for a reaction.

'Thank you ... I guess,' Sherlock replied. 'But I'm not interested.'

Jim took a step backwards, and if Sherlock had expected to see anger in those dark eyes, he was to be surprised yet again. A kind of sadness flickered across his soft features, followed by disappointment. Sherlock blinked and was about to comment, but everything was gone so quickly that he was not sure he had seen it at all, and the non-committal, luke-warm friendliness was firmly back into place.

'I'll ask again,' Jim said, no threat, only hope for a different answer apparent in those few words, and turned away from Sherlock. Without another glance he walked away, down the corridor and was gone.

Sherlock scoffed, confused by this changeable and unlikeable boy. It was a nagging, slightly burning feeling in his chest, and he did not like what it signified: being unsure, insecure about what to make of that scene. He exhaled, and let his arms fall to his sides, suddenly feeling weak when the tension that had taken hold of him, gushed out of his body.

Sherlock's eyes darted along the corridor, he was more anxious than ever for John to finally come and be with him, but there was no sign of him yet. Disappointed he slowly turned around, pushed the door open and walked back into his room.

o

He must have been sitting slumped against the door for about fifteen minues when he heard footsteps approaching. Sherlock was alert and up on his feet in a flash. Impatiently he tore open the door and there he was.

'John!' he exclaimed and grabbed his arm.

Pulling John inside his room and kicking the door shut with his heel was one. In his eagerness he was none too gentle, pushing John roughly against the door before he stilled almost completely. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions coursing through him - relief, excitement, desire - His hands fisted the front of John's t-shirt and remained where there were - ten, twenty seconds - and when he leaned down, slowly, slowly, his eyes, fixed on John, were intense and questioning. John held his gaze, but he was surprised by the vehemence with which Sherlock had claimed him and by the silent tension that followed it.

Their eyes locked, establishing connection, and John, wanting more, placed his hands on Sherlock's narrow hips, feeling the smooth fabric of his trousers. Gently his fingers caressed his hipbones, clearly discernible underneath the black cotton, the tactile sensation of skin on fabric triggering memories of this afternoon.

John closed his eyes for a second and swallowed around a lump in his throat. But his fingers on those hipbones were not enough, could never be enough and so he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's neck, one, two little pecks before his tongue darted out, licking where his lips had touched, moving down the pale skin, delving into the hollow of his collarbones.

Now it was John's turn to claim what he believed to be his.

oOo

'Tell me about Jim Moriarty,' Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, nuzzling the sandy strands of soft hair, inhaling the scent that clung to them. Cigarette smoke, cool night air, and traces of John's shampoo. 'Tell me why he doesn't like you.'

If John was surprised by the turn their lazy late-night conversation was taking, he did not show it. Still, he took a moment to think, 'Moriarty? ... He wants to be king, he wants to rule, he wants to dominate ...'

'And clearly you won't be ruled nor dominated.'

'No, I bloody well won't' John lifted his head a bit and turned to the side so that he could see Sherlock's face, gleaming in the sparse moonlight falling in through the open window. 'And I am not afraid of him or anybody else.'

'Obviously, ' Sherlock smirked, but then his face grew serious again. 'He doesn't seem very frightening to me. Unlikeable, mad, changeable yes, but not frightening,' he said, weaving his fingers in and out of John's straight and very soft hair. John closed his eyes, enjoying the tenderness that they were now able to give once their need for passion had been satisfied. Sherlock leaned down and kissed his forehead, brushing his lips over the warm skin there.

'Oh, but don't be fooled, Sherlock. He is.' John whispered, still not opening his eyes, 'He is frightening and dangerous, no doubt about that.'

'Is he now?' Sherlock's muttered, more to himself, his thoughts travelling back to the strange encounter he had had, just before John had come to him, how cunning and yet sad and strangely innocent Jim had appeared. His lips curled into a mocking little smile, and his eyes glazed over, he was suddenly far away.

'Sherl ...' John whispered when the silence began to linger, and the sound of John's voice was enough to chase Moriarty's spectre away.

Sherlock shook his head and slightly shifted his body in the narrow bed, trying to find a more comfortable position without disturbing John. 'What makes him so dangerous?' he softly asked. 'I saw how he treated his _friends_ or rather minions, but I don't see how he could actually be a danger for anybody.'

'There have been incidents ...'

'So?'

'There was a student in our year who committed suicide a few months ago. Tomas, or Tom, nice, quiet chap, not a highflyer, but he managed. Tom liked to smoke dope once in a while. Everybody knew it and everybody knew that he had been caught twice already. Lestrade gave him one last chance, probation so to speak.' John halted and took Sherlock's hand, interlacing their fingers, holding on. 'Tom was doing fine, keeping away from it, until he caught Jim in flagrante delicto with his girlfriend. He went sort of quiet after that, and started smoking dope again, and then somebody was very quick with a tip-off to Lestrade. There was no way around it, he had to expel him. The morning he should have left school we found him, he had hanged himself.'

'And you believe, it was Moriarty who set him up? Made out with the girlfriend, tipped off Lestrade? Why?'

'Because he did not like him, as simple as that.'

'That's a very weak conclusion.'

'No, that's a very strong conclusion, showing you that Jim Moriarty is fucking dangerous, because he does not even need a valid reason to make your life miserable. Maybe it's just because he is mad or he enjoys inflicting pain on others.'

'That would make him a sadist, John. He doesn't look like a sadist to me.'

John sat up and faced Sherlock. 'Why are we talking about that? And why do you excuse him, Sherlock? Why do you not believe me?'

Sherlock frowned when he noticed the growing irritation in John's voice. 'A sadist, John, is somebody who inflicts bodily pain on others and derives sexual pleasure from doing so. How is that applicable to what Moriarty allegedly did?'

'Allegedly?' John snatched his hand away and moved away from Sherlock, leaning his back against the wall. After a moment he crossed his arms in front of his chest. 'Allegedly? There is no such thing as allegedly here. Everybody knows that it was Jim, and that's exactly what makes him so dangerous. Everybody knows and nobody dares breathing a word.'

'Not even you?'

John opened his mouth to spit out an answer, but then he forced himself to choke back a hurting reply. He bit his lips, 'There was no hard evidence, I talked to Lestrade, but as I had nothing to back up my suspicion ...' John waved his hands dismissively.

'Hmm,' Sherlock clasped his hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. John glanced at him and could not believe that this Sherlock who seemed cold and distant now, lost in a world where John did not necessarily want to go, was the same Sherlock who, barely half an hour ago, had lost himself in passion.

'All I'm saying is that Jim is dangerous and that it's best to keep away from him.'

John was not sure if Sherlock was even listening to him, but he was very tired all of a sudden, weary and unwilling to end their first day together on an irritating note. With a sigh he lay down next to Sherlock again and placed his head on his chest, draping his arm over his belly. Sherlock's body tightened as if this touch had come completey unexpected, but then he relaxed and responded to John's embrace, drawing him closer, coming back from wherever he had been.

'I'll be careful,' he whispered, the words floating through the dark and chilly air, and John, almost asleep already, weakly nodded, his hair pleasantly brushing over Sherlock's warm skin. I was merely owing to John's tiredness that the ominous ambiguity of what Sherlock had just promised went unnoticed.

Sherlock closed his eyes as well, trying to catch some sleep, but his buzzing mind had trouble calming down, and so he listened to the regular breathing of John - in and out, in and out - trying his best to delete this damnable Jim Moriarty from his thoughts.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you all so much for your reactions. Please keep it up! JJ


	7. Moving on

**Moving on**

'Ladies and gentlemen, a bit of quiet, please!'

Mr Lestrade raised his voice over the insistent chatter in the room, a slight trace of annoyance tinting his usually smooth timbre. Almost immediately voices were hushed and eventually the room fell silent and all eyes turned to the headmaster.

'The senior class is the topic of our last meeting for today and I hope that all relevant teachers managed to be here by now?'

Lestrade glanced around the huge conference table in the staff room. They had been having one meeting after the other all afternoon, starting with the juniors and quite a few tricky cases, before moving on to the highly pubescent, but only mildly problematic fourteen and fifteen-year-olds. Judging by the barely hidden annoyance and boredom on the faces, the pinched lips and hunched shoulders, everybody was tired and rather tetchy already.

The senior class traditionally marked the end of this conference marathon and they were all aware that, despite all good intentions, this meeting might indeed take a while. Senior classes always proved to be special, mostly because of their imminent exams and, hopefully, graduation, but this year was a particularly delicate case.

The uproar and sadness caused by Thomas Burton's suicide a few months ago was still a vivid memory. It had taken time and a lot of counselling for students and staff members alike until they had regained a frail state of equilibrium. Tears had to be dried, rumours had to be squashed, and for a while persistent false accusations had poisoned the air, making for a few very tense weeks indeed.

Lestrade was about to deliver the ususal introductory sentences about rules and regulations regarding the upcoming finals when a latecomer hastened into the room, the smile on his face as guilty as it was apologetic. Lestrade sighed.

'Dr Anderson! At last. Do sit down quickly, will you!'

'Yes, of course. Sorry for being late, there was a student I had to talk to because ...'

'Yes, fine, Dr Anderson,' Lestrade cut him short and motioned with his head to a free chair at the far end of the table. Rifling through a stack of papers on the table in front of him he tried to hide the confusion caused by Dr Anderson's late entry.

'Well - Now, before we move on to the regulations of the upcoming finals, there's something else I would like to talk about.' Lestrade was back on track now, 'Our new student Sherlock Holmes. How is he doing, ladies and gentlemen?'

'He's nothing but a disruptive arrogant little bugger!' a grumpy voice spat out.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up, 'Clearly you want to rethink your choice of words, Mr Henslow.'

'No, I do not,' the old teacher grumbled. 'I'm a friend of frankness, and frankly I have yet to meet another student to match Sherlock Holmes' insolence and arrogance.'

'Does he correct you?' Madame Dreux asked in her appealing French accent, her usually so fresh face pinched and tired. 'Does he call you out on all inconsistencies in his _perfect_ French?'

Mr Henslow harrumphed, 'Does he correct me? Madame Dreux, believe me, he has no ground to stand upon, this young man. I know my facts and figures and if this whippet of a boy who is still green behind ...'

Madame Dreux was about to reply to this implicit accusation of dilettantism, but then chose to swallow a cutting retort and raised a disdainful eyebrow instead.

'I think we've heard enough now, Mr Henslow.' Lestrade lifted his hands in a placatory gesture. One that left Madame Dreux quietly fuming and the old history teacher huffing and puffing, the long suppressed and, as he believed, righteous anger about his students wanting out. Venting his anger about the impossible Sherlock Holmes had seemed a perfect opportunity to get at least some weight of his chest. An opportunity he had been denied.

'Maybe you don't know how to take him,' Mrs Gardener, who taught English Literature in the senior class piped up. 'Sherlock is very bright, very bright indeed, extraordinarily intelligent I'd even say. A highly analytical mind, able to dissect a character's motifs in breathtaking speed. He can delve into the human psyche like no one I know. Sherlock is able to see hidden patterns, he can assess strengths and weaknesses where other students barely grasp the content. 'Mrs Gardener paused dramatically and smiled, 'And he can be very charming indeed ...'

'Oh yes, especially with John Watson...' Dr Anderson muttered under his breath and Madame Dreux next to him felt inclined to raise an indignant eyebrow this time.

Lestrade deemed it wise to overhear that particular comment, 'Now that's all good and well, ladies and gentlemen. But will he pass the finals? What do you think?'

'No doubt,' Mrs Gardener stated, the tone of her voice allowing no contradiction.

Lestrade looked around the table and saw a few affirmative nods and Mr Henslow's grumpy face, 'Mr Henslow?'

'I assume so,' Mr Henslow eventually conceded.

'Good, that's great to hear.' Lestrade nodded, happy to be confirmed in his hopes about Sherlock Holmes. Hiding a rather smug smile, because he had been dead right about this boy, he rifled through the papers in front of him. 'Well - Let's move on then ... what are your overall impressions of the class? What about James Moriarty?'

Lestrade looked up exepectantly and judging from the weary and less than forthcoming looks on his colleague's faces this was going to be a long afternoon indeed.

oOo

'There it is,' Sally shouted and excitedly pointed to something ahead of her. John craned his neck, but they were lagging too far behind the others to see anything. Sally's shout was like a long awaited signal and the whole group quickened their pace. When the last of them had reached Sally's vantage point, the excited chatter ebbed away making place for astonished silence.

'Wow!' Henry exclaimed eventually, as usual a tad too loud and too expressive, his mouth falling open in a very unbecoming way.

'Henry, you're drooling,' Sally laughed and lightly punched him on the arm. Henry shut his mouth and smiled at her. 'But it's true, Sal. This is fucking fantaaaaaastic ...' And with that Henry started running down the slope towards the lush meadow and the lake stretching out in front of them, his arms extended in the sad imitation of an aeroplane.

'Yippeeeee!' Sally followed him, running, and soon others joined them in the race for the best spots on the banks of the lake.

'Sherlock, look at that,' John said and motioned towards the green paradise basking in the hot summer afternoon sun. 'It's bloody fantastic!'

'Yes, very nice,' Sherlock drawled, finding it hard to join in everybody's excitement. But John was here with him, and that was good and for his sake he was willing to be a - however inactive - part of the senior's barbecue.

Apparently it was a long-standing tradition, this secret outing on the afternoon of the final conferences, a barbecue on the banks of this lake, about half an hour's hike away from Lewisham Hall.

Officially they were not supposed be here. Officially, all students of Lewisham Hall were supposed to study on their own this afternoon, and from what Sherlock had seen and heard, all other classes were doing just that. It was the senior's privilege to secretly leave the school compound and have a barbecue to celebrate the end of their school time.

Sherlock sneered, the corner of his lips curling into a mocking little smile - Secret? Really not so terribly secret, this fantastic outing. Everybody with eyes to see and ears to hear, everbody who observed instead of merely saw must have noticed the preparations going on. He knew for a fact that Lestrade knew and if Lestrade knew probably most of the staff knew, apart from witless Dr Anderson that was.

Sherlock had tried to avoid it, but in the end it had proved impossible to escape the buzzing excitement that seemed to have taken hold of his classmates, and now that they were here ... Sherlock looked around and sniffed the air, taking in the crisp quality of the summer air, the faint smell of grass mixed with the more pungent scent of the lake.

Casting aside his inherent refusal of useless social gatherings he had to admit that this was a rather glorious spot to be spending their afternoon. A glittering lake, its surface rippled by a soft breeze, huge trees spending enough shadow to make the rather scorching heat bearable, the green leaves rustling softly in the wind.

'Come with me, Sherl,' John was suddenly next to him again and whispered in his ear, his breath pleasantly tickling Sherlock's skin. They exchanged a short glance, happy in the company of the other, and joined hands. Absolutely no need to say more, their silent understanding was that they would go looking for a quiet spot that was not already occupied by one of their classmates.

o

'Oh, just look at that,' Jim hissed, and Sebastian turned to him. When he saw the disgust disfiguring Jim's face he turned into the direction his friend was looking. All he saw was some of their classmates splashing in the lake, others dozing on blankets in the grass, and Henry, Mike and Oliver busy lighting the barbecue on the lakeside. Loud laughter was carried over to them by the light breeze that was making the hot afternoon sun pleasant - To an innocent onlooker there was nothing here that warranted scorn or disgust. Sebastian was puzzled, 'What are you talking about?'

Jim scoffed, 'All ... that!' he waved his hands vaguely in the direction of their classmates. 'All this shallow hilarity, all this _fun.' _He fairly spat out this word, and a sneer transformed his face yet again.

'Jim, sometimes I really don't understand what you're on about,' Sebastion stood up and made to join the others. 'I'll go and get a beer. Want one, too?'

'Yep, maybe that will help. No rush, though.'

Jim watched Sebastian weave his way through their classmates closely standing together, laughing and chatting.

_ Everybody's so boring!_

Disgusted with the world he slumped back onto the blanket and closed his eyes. Oh, how he resented being here - How bored he was and how he wished to be elsewhere, how he wished to be alone!

Jim blinked when a thought flashed across his mind and a sudden urge to move made him quickly sit up again. Hidden behind the dark shades he was wearing his eyes quickly scanned the area, seeing his classmates, but looking for somebody else, somebody special, looking for him.

_Maybe today we might talk? Maybe today he might speak to me - alone? _

Although he could not find him, he tilted his head back when a smile alleviated his mood. Thinking about him - fantasising - lifted his spirits considerably, lightened the dark shadow that was hovering over him almost constantly, making it more and more difficult to think.

_Maybe he can help?_

Yes, talking to him might be soothing ... And on the plus side, he could get to this awful John, and that was a treat Jim was definitely looking forward to. He had almost forgotten that not so long ago Sherlock had simply been a means to an end, the nail to John Watson's coffin, so to speak.

Jim still wanted to wipe that aggravating heartwarming smile off Watson's face, a smile that seemed to open hearts and minds. Yes, the desire to show John Watson who was the one running the show was still burning brightly and nicely in his heart.

But now there was Sherlock to consider, a riddle, an enigma - a soulmate - call it what you will. A boy who was as tantalising as he was forbidden and Jim wanted him, wanted him on his side.

With a sigh he slumped back onto the blanket and an almost supernatural stillness overcame him, rendering him all limp. Despite his initial unwillingness to enjoy himself, Jim felt something akin to excitement flowing through his body. He closed his eyes again and a truly wicked smile slowly crept across his face.

o

John stretched luxuriously, like a cat enjoying the first warm sun rays of summer on his fur - _This is bloody perfect _- It simply was a much-needed respite from all the stupid and repetitive revision of mathematical formulas, Shakespeare, Keats and the Rise and Decline of the British Empire - _This was fucking bliss!_ - John wiggled his naked toes, enjoying the soft tickling of the lush grass.

Slowly he turned his head to the side and watched Sherlock who had been very silent the last half hour. John was hit by his closeness and squinted because Sherlock's face was so deliciously near, so clear and crisp.

'Can't you enjoy being here just a tiny bit?' John whispered so that only his friend would hear.

Sherlock frowned, coming back from wherever his mind had taken him, and slightly shook his head. 'But I do!' Sherlock sounded genuinely indignant when he turned to John. 'What makes you think I wasn't?'

'Well, the prolonged silence for once, then there's that bloody far-away-look in your eyes, the fidgeting fingers as if you were busy filing invisible things away, and most of all the fact that you don't listen to me and you certainly don't answer my questions!'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, he had not been aware that he had been silent. 'How long?'

'Oh, about ...' John checked his watch, 'Twenty-five bloody minutes.'

'Really? I'm sorry. It must be the heat, makes me drowsy.'

'You were not drowsy, you were spaced out, somewhere else completely,' John murmured and continued to watch him, his eyes roaming over the dark curls, the bright eyes, the plush lips with that impossible Cupid's bow ... his eyes coming to rest on this mouth that could talk almost everybody into submission ...

Talk? Talking was all good and well, some other time maybe, though it was definitely not what John needed now.

Tenderly John cupped Sherlock's cheek, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the sharp cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes in response and scooted even closer.

'I'm all yours now,' he murmured.

'Good,' John nodded and kissed him.

* * *

**A/N** I'm sorry the update took longer than usual ... but real life was very demanding indeed!

Thank you so much for all your support, it means the world to me. Reviews and getting to know people and what they like is what makes this all worthwhile - I really can't stress this enough :)

JJ


	8. Collision

**Jim Moriarty makes his move ...**

* * *

**Collision**

The world zoomed out of focus when their kiss deepened, lengthened, became serious and demanding. Little, low moans were given and reciprocated, sighs lovingly demanded and softly, willingly given, but still a part of John refused to entirely abandon himself, was holding back, exercising restraint, not able to forget where they were.

Undeterred Sherlock's hands sneaked up his back, underneath his t-shirt, his fingernails digging into his skin, pressing into him and creating delicious pain. John broke the kiss for a moment and gasped for air. A wicked smile spread across Sherlock's face, and John knew exactly where this was going.

As if Sherlock had read John's thoughts and felt his initial hesitation, he draped one leg over John's hips, drawing him closer while providing cover from curious glances. Anybody looking now would see them embracing, but nothing more.

A hand meandered around to John's chest, the long fingers ghosting over his ribs and circling one nipple, coaxing it into a rigid nub before moving on to the other one. Impatient now, John tried to come closer still, chasing away the distance. Sherlock chuckled against John's lips while his fingers sneaked purposefully lower, lower, opening the one button, undoing the zip, before they found their way underneath the waistband of John's boxers.

Their lips never parted and their bodies barely moved when Sherlock's finger began to establish a secret and delicious rhythm.

o

John must have dozed off, the high temperatures, the hike as well as the hilarious barbecue with their classmates taking their toll on him. After dinner most of them had remained around the fire, but John had returned with Sherlock to their resting place, both tired and willing to be alone some more.

John was still a bit drowsy, but _for God's sakes_, it felt so good to be lying underneath the slowly darkening sky and John remained motionless for a few moments more, taking in the balmy and fragrant evening air. Astonished he realised that dusk was indeed settling in and that it must be quite late already. He checked his watch - almost ten - _Jesus_, he must have slept for the best part of an hour.

Only a very fleeting thought was spent wondering when they would begin their hike back. It seemed more likely they would stay on here for the night as they were clearly all reluctant to return to Lewisham Hall, the afternoon and evening had been too glorious and everybody wanted to make the most of it.

'Sherl...' John murmured and patted the blanket next to him, expecting a drowsy Sherlock. But all his hand found was the rough fabric of the old quilt they had brought with them. Startled John sat up and glanced around, 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock was gone, had left him here, only his shoes and socks, neatly arranged at the foot of the quilt, keeping him company. John frowned and scanned the surrounding area for his friend, but he could neither make him out between the others lounging around the bonfire they had lit at the lakeside nor sitting underneath one of the neighbouring trees.

John stretched his arms and legs before he got up to look for him. He was not overly worried by Sherlock's absence as he had probably only needed a bit of time for himself, had needed to put distance between himself and all this loud and rough hilarity.

A thought made John suddenly stop in his tracks - _he might have gone back to the school of course -_ something which appeared foolish, but which John did not entirely put past him. But then he remembered that he had left his shoes behind and relaxed, not even Sherlock was desperate enough for solitude to hike back the two and a half miles on bare feet.

o

Sherlock took a greedy drag and listened to the silence surrounding him. An almost complete, utterly calming stillness, punctuated only occasionally by pearly laughter or a few words uttered in a deep voice - companiable noises floating over from the bonfire.

He had fled, maybe twenty minutes ago, had left his John sleeping on the quilt. Near the water he felt better. Forced inertia and the dreadful nothingness of just being here with no possibilty to leave, did he not want to hurt John that was, had been stifling, had weighed him down. The walk and the solitude had done him good and now his restlessness was slowly dissolving with the water softly lapping against his shins -

Sherlock had found this secluded spot after strolling along the lakeside, away from the laughter and after dinner-hilarity. The path he had followed had been at times nearing the lake and then moving away again, depending on the trees barring access to the water or granting it. A beautiful and enormous weeping willow had eventually caught his eye and fairly beckoned him to rest on a strong, wide branch reaching out quite far over the water.

On bare feet he had carefully balanced the few yards out and rolling up the legs of his trousers he had felt like an adventurer, a pirat, alone on a deserted island. This rare and happy childhood memory had accompanied his first cigarette and was now sweetening the second.

o

John dodged a kissing couple on his way to his friend Mike and when he had reached him he bent down to whisper in his ear, 'Have you seen Sherlock, Mike?'

Mike turned around, his happy round face reddened from today's sun and shook his head. 'Not since the barbecue, no. Why, do you miss him already? In need of a helping hand, maybe?' he smirked.

'Sure, Mike! I always am,' John replied good-naturedly and winked before he lightly clipped him around the ear.

'Ouch! Watson!' Mike yelped and made to get up and chase John, but Sally next to him held him back. 'You're not going anywhere, Mike Stamford!' she said, smiling at John and Mike, the intent behind her words more than clear.

Mike grinned and settled down again, 'This is your lucky day, John Watson! The lovely lady doth require my assistance, otherwise I would show you...!'

John answered Mike's grin and winked at Sally, 'Thanks, anyway. I'm sure I'll find him!'

John turned away from the bonfire and started towards the lake. He had been walking along the banks for a while when he realised with a chuckle that he had chosen the direction by pure instinct, completely convinced he would find Sherlock eventually. And sure enough after walking for maybe five minutes, he could see a familiar figure sitting on a branch reaching out over the water, his feet dangling and softly splashing in the water.

John smiled and quickened his pace, his heartbeat elevating. He moved swiftly through the high grass and ducked low-hanging branches, but when he straightened his back again, the picture had changed. Something was wrong. Something was moving towards Sherlock - sneaking - a shadow, an unwanted presence - danger maybe.

John's heart skipped a beat before an almost supernatural coldness settled over him. Instinctively crouching down he crawled nearer, avoiding any noise that could have alerted the shadow of his presence. It was important to come within ear-shot and near enough to see Sherlock cleary in order to be able to protect him. John's heart clenched when he saw the shadow placing a foot on the branch Sherlock was sitting on, causing him to look up, startled, fear darting across his features - sharply followed by annoyance.

'It's you,' Sherlock said and John marginally relaxed when he heard the obvious and cold loftiness in his voice which made it clear that he did not feel threatened.

'Yes, it's me,' a familiar voice drawled from the shadows. John's fist clenched involutarily and when Jim Moriarty stepped further out onto the branch, John needed all his self-control not to leave his hiding place immediately and shoo him away like a moth or trample him like a loathsome spider.

But he could not, as lunging out from his cover like a wild hunter would make him look silly, and suddenly he felt trapped. He could not reveal himself without looking foolish to Sherlock and Moriarty.

Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned the area - _esacape route blocked, water shallow, maybe ten, twenty inches, might just use that, pulse elevated, transpiration in hands, fear ... interesting_ - before they settled on Jim Moriarty. He chose to be silent, to wait, after all he wanted nothing from him and therefore was happy to keep the advantage of silence.

Jim cautiously advanced on the wide branch, uneasy, obviously afraid to slip. Holding on to the hanging branches over his head as long as possible, he lowered himself next to Sherlock, not quite touching him, but way too close for comfort. Sherlock tensed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He regretted having left his shoes with John as it put him at a disadvantage now and made him feel exposed.

'Sherlock, tell me about your family,' Jim demanded out of the blue, his voice soft and friendly.

'Why would you be interested? _I_ am not interested in my family, why would anybody else be?'

'Not?' Jim shrugged, 'Oh well, then I'll tell you about mine. No brothers and sisters, mother died five years ago, cancer. Father wants to be a tyrant, unable to keep his hands of any passing female, boozes too much, lazy, passes his days spending money in abundance. We're rich, old money, inherited, father never worked. I have been packed off to boarding schools since the age of five. Liked it that way, saved me the trouble of pretending. Can't stand my old man, he's a sissy. The only good person in my life was my mother.'

Jim stopped this flow of words, his eyes glazing over for a millisecond, but then he was back on track, 'Yep, that's me.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock said coldly, not believing one word of what he had just been told.

Jim chuckled, 'Isn't it just!'

'And not one word of it is true,' Sherlock stated.

'Exactly!' Jim chuckled again and glanced sideways at Sherlock.

Fairly sure now to be safe on the wide branch, Jim drew his feet up to his chest, tired of stretching his legs to keep his shoes out of the water. They were silent, just looking down at the softly rippling surface of the lake. The silence began to linger and grew unconfortable, but Sherlock was unwilling to talk, sure that Jim was contemplating his next move already.

'Have you always known that you like boys?'

Surprised Sherlock turned to Jim. It was a very blunt question. Sherlock usually did not mind bluntness at all, but this was well-calculated bluntness, this was Jim Moriarty's hidden agenda and it immediately made him wary. 'I don't know in what way this should concern you?'

Jim shrugged casually, 'I'm just curious, I guess ... Seeing you with Watson I had just been wondering.'

'About what exactly have you been wondering?'

'How did you realise that you're not _normal_, that you're ... gay?' Jim glanced at Sherlock who looked annoyed and ready to leave. Suddenly Jim reached out as if to stop him and placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh. 'Let me know what it feels like.'

Sherlock looked down on the small hand on his leg and without thinking he pushed himself off the branch and jumped into the water. It was barely knee-deep and he waded towards the shore without difficulty.

'Not interested,' he snarled over his shoulder, not looking back, eager to put a distance between himself and this Moriarty as quickly as possible. He heard a splash behind him, indicating that Jim had followed him into the water, shoes and all and he quickened his pace. Before he had reached the shore, he felt a tug at his shoulder, a hand on his upper arm, trying to hold him, hold him back. He tore his arm away and repeated, louder this time and with more emphasis, 'I _said_, I am not interested.'

Jim did not say anything, he just smiled a kind of absent smile and tried to grab him with both arms, clutching him. He turned out to be wiry and surprisingly strong, and even though he was shorter than Sherlock, he seemed stronger and tenacious, effectively managing to hold him tight.

'Let go!' Sherlock hissed and fought to break free. 'Let me go! Now!'

Suddenly there was more splashing of water and an angry snarl cutting through the air. Jim's grip on Sherlock loosened the instant two strong arms angrily pushed him away.

'Get your fucking hands off him!' John hissed and pushed him again. 'Now! You fucking wanker.'

Jim stumbled, but stayed upright. 'Watson!' he said, a mocking smile playing around his lips. 'What do you want? Go away, nobody wants _you_ here. Isn't that right, Sherl?'

When John heard Jim using that particular term of endearment he alone used for Sherlock, something snapped inside him and a fiery red anger as violent as it was sudden flared up.

With an almost feral sound he threw himself at Jim, shoving him, tackling him roughly. Both of them stumbled and John fell on top of Jim when they went underwater. They surfaced again, gasping and gulping for air, and John used the split-second he had to his advantage to punch Jim hard in his face. His fist connected with a satisfying crunch with Jim's jaw, sending the boy reeling backwards.

John's vision was tinted orange-red, becoming frazzled around the edges, and he was filled with nothing but rage, felt nothing but the urge to _shut him up_, to quench his flaring anger with Jim's pain. Without thinking anything else but - _stop - stop - stop _- he grabbed his bony shoulders and pushed him underwater, shoving, pressing, holding him down. Jim's hands scrabbled for purchase in John's t-shirt and tried to push him away, but John was stronger and by far angrier and kept him there, underwater.

'John! John, get off him!' Sherlock shouted, trying to stop him. He sounded frightened, he had never seen his friend in such a state. 'John, please! Don't ... John.' He clawed at his back, at his t-shirt, dragging him away, frantically, tearing him away from Jim and out of the water.

'John!' Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, establishing contact, rocking him like a child, trying to coax him out of this fiery red anger.

Behind them Jim came up with a heaving breath, spluttering water the next moment. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he made a show of gulping for air, coughing, retching water and splashing about, loudly, every movement, every noise screaming for attention. Aparently satisfied with his display Jim eventually fixed his black eyes on him. 'Sherlock,' he gasped, 'What was _that_? Can't you even control your little pet?'

'You fucking bastard,' John screamed and lunged towards him again, but Sherlock was prepared and held him back, holding onto him, trying to prevent more damage. 'Don't listen to him, John. Just look at me - John? John? Just look at me!'

Slowly, slowly John turned his gaze back to Sherlock. It was as if he was coming back from a trance, a numbing haze, and when his mind and reality reunited with an almost audible click, all anger gushed out of him and he let his head fall forward against Sherlock's chest with a thud. '_Jesus_ ...'

'You almost killed me,' Jim's indignant voice piped up. He had struggled to his feet and waded to the shore where he now stood, dripping wet and making a show of it.

'You almost _killed_ me and I swear to God you will pay for it, John Watson! You will fucking _pay_ for it!' he spat.

John glanced at him. Jim's face bore the expression of someone who was truly shocked and frightened by what had just happened and John closed his eyes in shame. He heard him rustling about, the drenched shoes squeaking, muttering, and when he was ready to open his eyes again and glanced back at Jim's face he was expecting a display of shock, fear and probably anger, but what he saw was something else entirely.

Gone were fear or shock, replaced by a smug expression of satisfaction and _glee_. John frowned in disbelief and Jim was careful to quickly evoke the appropriate emotions of shock and fright again when he turned his gaze back to Sherlock.

But John felt a stab of fear when Moriarty's little show made him realise that this outcome was exactly what Jim had been planning on all along.

At this instant John knew that his days in Lewisham Hall were over.

* * *

**A/N** Ah, this awful Moriarty ... Let's see whether John and Sherlock can beat him in the end ...

Thank you all so much for your support! You are truly lovely,

JJ


	9. Jigsaw

**It seems as if Moriarty's plan to take John out of the equation works, but Sherlock refuses to give in so easily ...  
**

* * *

**Jigsaw**

'I'm afraid it's not that simple, Sherlock,' Lestrade said and winced slightly when he moved his head. He was no longer capable of hiding the leaden fatigue that had taken hold of him. Long and strenuous days lay behind the headmaster of Lewisham Hall, talk had followed meeting, had followed talk, or should he rather think of those endless talks as interrogations?

Involuntarily Lestrade sighed and Sherlock turned and fully faced him, noticing the change at once. Mr Lestrade seemed tired and uneasy, squirming on his seat, a good part of his usually so dominant headmaster persona gone. When he spoke, his voice sounded weaker than before. 'I can't simply reverse John's suspension.'

'Why not?' Sherlock pleaded, not for the first time in this conversation which seemed to be going round in circles. 'I _told_ you why he attacked Jim, I _explained_ that he was only protecting me, it was all for _me_. If anybody should be suspended it should be James Moriarty who insulted John and started all this ...'

Lestrade held up his hands to silence him and to indicate that he was not willing to launch into that debate yet again. 'I am fully aware of that, Sherlock. John told me, you told me and I appreciate the fervour with which you are fighting for your ... friend.'

Sherlock scoffed, and Lestrade was loath to guess which cowardice Sherlock despised more, the fact that he would not immediately stand up against the likes of James Moriarty or that he could not even bring himself to call John his _boyfriend_. The headmaster cleared his throat, he was growing more and more uneasy.

'Sherlock, rest assured that nothing will be decided rashly. But something else has come to light which changed everything we knew so far.' He had Sherlock's attention now. 'I have to tell you that two witnesses came foward who back up James Moriarty's version of events.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he bent down, placing his hands squarely on the headmaster's wooden desk, thus looming over him. Taken aback by this audacity Lestrade sat back in his seat, putting more distance between himself and his student, but when he spoke again he sounded almost apologetic.

'I'm afraid we may have reached an impasse here, Sherlock. To rightfully reverse John's suspension I need evidence that James instigated the whole incident on purpose and solely with the aim of implicating John. As long as there's no such evidence it's your word against theirs.'

'No! It's _not_!' Sherlock exploded and pushed himself off the desk. He started pacing the room, ruffling his hands through his hair in frustration. It hurt Lestrade's eyes to follow this flurry of motion and emotion and he let his gaze drop to his hands, lying folded and still in his lap. Suddenly the flurry stopped.

'Who are those witnesses?'

Lestrade squirmed a bit, unsure if he should divulge those names, but then he decided that it was Sherlock and John's right to know.

'Sebastian Moran and Henry Simmons.'

'Of course,' Sherlock scoffed, his fingers starting to twitch, taking up a fast and very nervous rhythm.

'What do you mean?' Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock resumed pacing the headmaster's office, his whole demeanour resembling more and more that of an overly nervous and excitable racing horse, straining against whatever was holding him back.

'What I mean is that it is obvious why they would back up Moriarty's story, Mr Lestrade. They are his friends, or should I better say henchmen?'

'Surely, Sherlock, that's a bit harsh ...'

'I never saw anybody near us. The whole time ...' Sherlock's mind returned to that awful moment two days ago. 'I can't believe I would not have noticed - _I_ would not have noticed? ... No, it's impossible ... and why did they not interfere and help their _friend_ Moriarty then?' He turned to Lestrade, 'When exactly did they come forward?'

'One day after the incident.'

'And you believe them?'

Lestrade leaned forward, more sure of himself now, and wanting Sherlock to believe him.

'Sherlock, James admits that he harrassed you, he expressed his regret concerning that incident, and he will have to answer for his behaviour. But there's no way around the fact that John almost drowned him. James is still suffering, he told me he had nightmares, difficulties to concentrate and you seriously can't expect me to overlook an assault as grave as that. It is a serious matter and ...'

'Oh, that's clever, so clever!' Sherlock interrupted him. 'How cunning to admit the one thing that he can't talk his way out of so that you will swallow his other lies! Can't you _see_ what's going on?'

Sherlock was almost shouting now, his eyes wide, and his face animated and flushed. Lestrade remained silent, granting him a moment to compose himself. Sherlock noisily exhaled to calm down and hung his head.

'Please,' he said, his voice low and insistent, 'Please, Mr Lestrade. There's only one thing I want to ask of you. Think carefully about whom you can believe, don't judge too fast. Please?' He looked up and Lestrade was surprised to see tears glittering in those pale eyes. Quickly Sherlock cast his eyes down and looked away.

'Yes, Sherlock, I will. But the temporary suspension of John Watson is valid as long as the investigation is ongoing.' Lestrade stood up, 'I'm sorry, Sherlock.' He looked a bit sheepish when he added. 'Please do tell John that.'

'Yes,' was all Sherlock could bring himself to say before he turned and left the headmaster's office.

oOo

'No, no, no' Sherlock mumbled, burying his mouth in John's hair. 'You're not leaving me, you're not leaving this school. I won't let you!' He wrapped his arms around John's strong frame and held him tight. Sherlock could feel him shivering as if the cold was taking control of his body from within when in fact the evening was balmy.

Coming back from Lestrade Sherlock had found John waiting for him in his room and now there were sitting next to each other on the floor, their backs leaning against the wardrobe.

'My parents will hate me,' John softly said.

Sherlock placed his hand on the nape of his distressed boyfriend, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft hair there.

'Hmm,' he answered, not quite comprehending where John's thoughts were taking him and why John was so desperate to please his parents. 'I'm sure they will understand when you explain ...'

'You don't get it, do you?' John looked up, disbelief written all over his face. 'You and your fancy, rich family! You just don't get it that I am _finished_ when I can't graduate here! No more military career, not a bloody chance of becoming an army surgeon.' His voice broke and he gulped back some angry tears. 'My parents are working their arses off to pay the bloody school fees and they will never recover from the shock that their son was expelled from this posh school for almost killing somebody!'

'Of course ... I understand,' Sherlock nodded, his face solemn, and if he was fazed by this explosion of emotions, he did not show it. In fact he preferred an angry, a fighting John to the weepy and sad version that had been at his side during the last two days. 'John, I completely understand. But your parents are not the most important thing now. You are. You need to stay here, you will graduate, you will not be expelled ... I just won't let it happen!'

John snorted mirthlessly. 'How? Lestrade suspended me, there are witnesses backing up fucking Moriarty. Fact is, that I'm not even allowed to write the finals next week. For fuck's sake - How on earth do you want to change that?'

Despite his earlier confident words Sherlock had no immediate answer to this burning question and tightened his grip on John instead. John leaned into his touch, eagerly, trustingly, and Sherlock kissed his cheek, his nose, his lips, once, twice, kissing the cold and the fear away. John gradually relaxed and calmed down and Sherlock finally found the words he needed to say.

'I will find a way, John. I know what I have to do. I know. Just trust me!'

oOo

Pensively Mr Lestrade stirred his tea, creating a forceful little whirl, entirely oblivious of the agitated amber liquid sloshing over the rim of Mrs Hudson's best china teacups.

'Mr Lestrade! ' Mrs Hudson chided, quick to dab at the stains on her best linen table cloth.

'I'm awfully sorry, Mrs Hudson,' Lestrade placed the silver spoon into the saucer, careful not to soil the white linen any more. He cleared his throat, blushing a little, eager to deflect the matron from his clumsiness.

'What do _you_ think, Mrs Hudson?' He smiled at her, taking one slice of her delicious shortbread, regretting it the next moment when crumbs started decorating his lap.

'Well, from what I know about John Watson I refuse to believe that his actions were motivated by anything else than chivalry. He wanted to protect his boyfriend.' She leaned forward, clutching her hands in front of her bosom, an almost angelic smile brightening up her features. 'These two are a lovely couple, Mr Lestrade. John truly loves Sherlock and from what I have seen Sherlock loves him just the same.' Mrs Hudson nodded and Mr Lestrade smiled weakly. He felt less comfortable than his matron to discuss his students' love life, but he was well aware that it could not be entirely avoided in this case. 'So, anything John did was to protect Sherlock, I am absolutely certain of that!'

'Mrs Hudson, there are two witnesses claiming that John held James Moriarty under water with the intent of killing him...'

'Witnesses?' Mr hudson sounded very alarmed all of a sudden. 'What witnesses? Who?'

'Sebastian Moran and Henry Simmons.'

'Of all people!' Mrs Hudson scoffed.

'Why? What is it?'

Mrs Hudson sat forward in her seat, leaning close, eager to divulge what she knew. 'Sebastian is what you could call Jim's friend, has been ever since he came to Lewisham two years ago. But being friends with Jim is difficult, he is very demanding, absolute loyalty is a must. Now Sebastian is a good boy at heart and frankly I'd like to see him befriending somebody else, to be honest ...' She paused to draw breath, 'Lately, however, I have noticed that Sebastian distanced himself more and more from Jim. Now when it comes to playing the witness for him despite this growing distance there must be a good reason ...' Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows suggestively.

'You mean?'

Mrs Hudson nodded, 'Yes ... maybe Jim knows about something that Sebastian would rather hide?'

Mr Lestrade frowned, this business was getting more and more tangled, distasteful and difficult by the minute. 'And Henry Simmons?'

Mrs Hudson waved her hand dismissively, 'He is just a bit simple and in dire need of approval.'

'So, what you are saying is that both witnesses could be in fact lying?'

'It's a possibility, yes,' Mrs Hudson stated. 'Frankly, I would never trust anything James Moriarty says. He is as dangerous as he is cunning. Don't forget poor Thomas Burton!'

Mr Lestrade winced when he heard this name, reminding him of that boy's fate and his less than glorious role in the ensuing inquiry.

'Still, the fact remains that John Watson assaulted James Moriarty and I can't simply forget it. James claims he still suffering from the aftereffects of that traumatic incident ...' His voice trailed off when his eyes took in Mrs Hudson's doubtful expression. 'Please don't get me wrong, Mrs Hudson, but I can't just rely on hearsay, I need evidence. James presented those two witnesses who back his version of events and so far John has brought nothing forward to prove that James Moriarty was in fact the instigator. You see, I can't just let John off the hook like that.'

'No,' Mrs Hudson patted his hand in a motherly fashion, 'Of course, you can't! But mabe you have to look at the whole affair with fresh eyes and from an unusual angle? Look at what you know about John, Sherlock and James and then reach your decision. I'm sure you'll know what is right!'

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' Mr Lestrade smiled insecurely, unsure what to make of that motherly gesture and advice.

Only this morning he had been fairly certain that this was a straight forward affair, one he might not particularly like, especially not the fact that it would end the academic career of one of his brightest and most popular students, but all the facts had seemed to point into one direction: John Watson had attempted to drown James Moriarty and there was no doubt that he had to live with the consequences of this behaviour.

But he trusted Mrs Hudson's instincts and insight into their students more than he would ever publicly admit, and that she openely doubted James Moriarty's version of events added more fuel to the slow-burning doubt that had been nagging him ever since the two witnesses had come forward. On top of that the rumours about James Moriarty's role in Thomas Burton's suicide, which had never completely died down, ruthlessly reared their ugly heads to be recognised again.

Yes, only this morning headmaster Lestrade of Lewisham Hall had been sure of the facts, ready to reach a decision, but now there was Gregory Lestrade, a decent man and a very talented teacher, doubting, and there were his mind, his heart and his conscience all wanting to be heard, demanding to be taken seriously at last.

Lestrade sighed and buried his head in his hands - What now?

* * *

**A/N** Thank you for the positive response I get for this universe. I'm so glad you like it.

And please do keep up the lovely support. It's the bread and butter of any writer ... ;)

Thank you so much, my lovelies!

JJ


	10. Illusions

**Illusions**

So far, so _very_ good!

James Moriarty stretched luxuriously on the lush, green lawn behind the school building. He crossed his legs at the ankles, and let his fingers meander through the soft grass. Nothing weighed him down, nothing rained on his parade, everything was pure bliss and when laughter washed up against his ears and sunrays tickled his skin, the brightness of the afternoon had no hard job convincing him to better close his eyes and to relax completely. A pleasant tiredness overcame him, only adding to the fantastic feeling that was filling his every fibre, the satisfaction that came with a job well done.

Loathsome John Watson had been suspended, his complete expulsion from Jim's life only a matter of days, Sebastian was firmly back on track, Henry a good foot soldier as ever. And only this morning Jim had heard some younger, very pretty girls cooing over him when he had passed them in the hall, and putting the cherry on the cake had been the observation of some older boys stepping aside reverently and letting him pass.

A good, a very good, a downright _orgasmic_ feeling it had been to see everything back in order - Everybody was in awe of the king! And rightly so...

A shadow suddenly fell over him, unpleasantly cooling the air, forcing him to open his eyes.

'What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get out of the sun, you ...'

Abruptly he stopped when his eyes had adjusted just enough to the bright light to make out who the tall, lanky figure was - dressed in a white shirt and narrow black linen trousers, rolled up at the ankles to pay tribute to the fine weather, barefoot and looming over him. Flustered Jim struggled into an upright position to make up, at least slightly, for the disadvantage of being caught lazing about.

'Sherlock!' He croaked and cursed his damn voice for not being able to hide his commotion. 'It's you ... um ... sit down, will you?'

Nervously, but aiming for nonchalance, he patted the grass next to him, his usual cocky self-confidence only gradually taking control again.

'I think it's time we talked,' Sherlock said, making use of a very low cadence of his voice, deliberately contrasting it with Jim's flustered stammering. He made no move to take Jim up on his offer, as he loved to see James Moriarty below him, well aware of the psychological advantage this position granted him.

'What would you like to talk about, dear?' Jim opened his arms wide in a gesture indicating they could talk about what made the world go round or who put the icing on the little cupcakes in the local bakery for all he cared.

'Nothing special,' Sherlock said casually and glanced around. They were practically alone, all other students busy somewhere else and on a whim he decided to sit down after all. He noticed the sharp intake of breath when he sat down next to Jim, so he deliberately shuffled closer and focused entirely on him.

'How are you feeling, Jim?' he all but purred. 'I'm sure this ... hideous attack has been quite traumatic?'

Jim narrowed his eyes, unable to hide the surprise this enquiry caused. Sherlock held his gaze, and Jim saw nothing but interest on that enticingly pale face and a warm smile lifting the corners of his lips. Thus assured Jim knew what to do, and so he cleared his throat and glanced away. Hanging his head in a rather dramatic display of distress, he muttered, 'I'm still in shock. You know ... still ... shaken by John's attack.'

He looked up again, not quite able to rid himself of the fear to find a mocking or disbelieving smile answering his confession, but he only saw genuine concern. An observation which helped to gradually lessen the tension that seemed to take hold of him whenever Sherlock was close, enabling him to relax and enjoy the moment.

'You know,' Sherlock said pensively and leaned back on his elbows, looking at Jim from underneath his eyelashes. 'I was very surprised by how violent John can be. I had never seen him like that before.'

Jim looked at him intently. Sherlock could see the hope, but also the disbelief, the doubts and all the questions behind his scrutiny, could see, feel, smell how he was judged - _Go on, Jim, try to read me, you bastard! I dare you_ - Oh, this was indeed going exactly as he had planned and he continued undeterred and sure of himself.

'Quite a disadvantage, losing control like that - such a _weakness_ - Don't you think?' He clicked the final letter all the better to convey his annoyance and disgust.

'Oh, absolutely. I couldn't agreee more, my dear,' Jim grinned, a bit dizzy, happy and surprised by this turn of events. Sherlock ploughed ahead and forced himself to lock eyes with Jim Moriarty - _Time to make the decisive move_ -

'Maybe I was wrong, Jim. Maybe John is not what I was looking for. Maybe I made the wrong decision?'

'Maybe,' Jim nodded slowly and shuffled closer.

It took all of Sherlock's self-control not to recoil in reflex, but he stayed where he was and even managed to answer the timid smile which quite changed Jim's face.

o

John clenched his fists when he saw Jim moving closer to Sherlock. He let his forehead fall forward against the window pane with a loud bang. Down on the lawn Sherlock laughed about something Jim had said, that bastard's hands gesturing wildly, flying through the air. John's heart skipped a beat and fear and loathing started to fight for dominance within his chest - _This is not what I wanted ..._

'You okay?' a voice piped up close to him.

Surprised John turned around and found little Carl Powers standing there. A puzzled frown knitted his brows, making him look a lot older than his eleven years. When his friendly enquiry received no answer, he asked again, 'John, are you okay?'

'Yes,' John cleared his throat, 'Yes, I'm fine Carl.' He smiled a brave little smile to establish the ilusion that everything was indeed fine, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes.

'I was looking for you.' Carl stepped forward and extended his hand holding a battered old paperback, a novel John had given him two or three weeks ago. 'I read it in one go, it's great! I especially like when Holden asks the taxi driver about the ducks.'

'Right - Yes, that's a neat moment,' John conceded. 'Although, when it comes to favourite moments, I especially like when Holden punches Stradlater for treating Jane so badly ... that's a bloody fantastic incident ...' John stopped when he realised what he was doing and a bit flustered he turned back to the window. Of course Sherlock and Jim were still down there, Jim was still laughing, like a hyena, exposing his throat to Sherlock. He was obviously telling some never-ending, bloody _hilarious_ story and involuntarily John clenched his fists again.

'What's Sherlock doing with Jim?' Carl asked, he was standing right beside him all of a sudden. 'I thought he could not stand him? What happened, John?'

'Carl, that's rather difficult to explain...'

'Is it because of what you did? Last week? To Jim?'

John just nodded, not trusting his voice.

'I think what you did was wicked, you really showed him! Jim is such a bully, he hurt me so much ...' Carl abruptly stopped talking, and became guarded again, but for the first time in all the time John had known him, he had sounded less than cheerful. His words had been laced with disgust and contempt and there had been anger.

'Carl, what happened?' The boy did not answer, his eyes darting nervously around. 'Carl, nothing can happen to you. I'm here, with you.'

Carl nodded, relaxing a bit and looked up at the older boy, a brave smile trying to cover up his agitation. John smiled back when something occured to him, something which might help Carl and it might just as well help him. 'Carl, will you tell me what he did to you? Will you tell me about James Moriarty?'

The young boy glanced through the window and back at John and saw nothing but interest and benevolence in the older boy's face, but most of all he saw a friend. It was easy to reach a decision, 'Yes!'

'Good! Come with me, Carl,' John wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders and gently guided him away from the windows, down the corridor and towards the library. At this time of day they were likely to be the only students there and they would be able to talk in private.

oOo

Sherlock looked for John everywhere, went to all their usual hideouts, their secret meeting places, but he was nowhere to be found. Annoyance tickled Sherlock, impatience drove him on, but eventually he decided to return to his room, slightly disheartened and restless. He was walking along the ground floor corridor in the boy's wing, gloomy despite the glaring sunlight outside, when he saw him, sitting on the sill in one of the bay windows, hugging his knees to his chest and staring out into the back garden.

'John! I've been looking for you everywhere, I've got so much to tell you!' Disappointment forgotten, there were only waves of excitement coming off Sherlock now, almost glittering in the cool air of the corridor.

John slowly turned his head to him and blinked. 'Oh?' he cleared his throat, 'Right - Okay - That's good, I guess.' His attempt at a smile fell somewhat short, he seemed dazed and faraway.' He brushed his hands over his face, 'I've got news as well.'

'Really? Mine first, John!' Sherlock said determinedly and sat down next to him in the narrow recess.

'No! Before you tell me, Sherlock ... there's something I have to get off my chest, something that's been bugging me ever since I saw you, outside on the lawn, earlier this afternoon,' he broke off and Sherlock knitted his brows. He had been about to tell John what he had found out, deduced and pieced together in the matter of the last hours, but John's tone of voice compelled him to remain quiet, patient and most of all to listen.

John glanced away, hugging his knees even tighter to his chest. 'Sherl, I really don't know if what we are trying to do is right. _Jesus_ - How can I expect you to ...' he broke off and rephrased. 'I don't want you to play games ... James Moriarty's games. Sherl, for fuck's sakes can't you see how dangerous he is?'

'I can handle him, John.'

'Yes, but things go wrong for everyone and everyone makes mistakes if they are not attentive enough. Please ... please don't play his games. You are not like him.' A pause, weighted with something else that wanted out. Nervously John cleared his throat again, 'As I said, I don't know if this is the right thing to do, I really don't. At the moment there is nothing in my life I want more than showing this maniac that he can't rule the school, that he won't succeed with all this bullying and shoving around. I want to show him how much I bloody hate him for what he did to you and to me. But to see you like that ...'

Puzzled Sherlock narrowed his eyes, 'Like what, John?'

'Like Moriarty's whore.'

'What?' Sherlock said, his voice low, able to hide the fact that he was taken aback.

'I saw you, the two of you, on the lawn, like two _best friends_, no, much more than that actually. You were selling yourself for a bit of ... I don't know what you want from him ...' John quickly glanced at his friend, and away again, not trusting himself.

'I was merely collecting data. There's no need to dramatise. Look at it rationally, John. I made him talk!'

'Rationally? How do you expect me to take this rationally? Bloody James Moriarty scheming away to get me expelled and then I see you snuggling up to him ...' John unfolded his legs and brushing past Sherlock, he got up to stand in front of him. He lifted his hands as if he wanted to touch, and opened his mouth to continue his attack, but it was as if he had run out of steam and he remained quiet.

'Are you done now?' Sherlock asked, not unfriendly, just curious.

'No!' John said heatedly, wanting to go on, to vent all the anger and fear that was sitting inside his chest like a malignant growth, fuelled by his hate of Moriarty and his scheming ways, but standing so close to Sherlock, smelling him, almost, but not quite touching him, the anger gradually lessened while the fear remained. John let his arms fall to his sides and exhaled, breathing through his anxiety, breathing it out.

'John,' Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, establishing, no, needing contact. 'From my side, there was nothing indecent in that talk. How can you even think that? I played him, I used him, I lulled him into believing that I'm on his side... and it worked, John! He got careless, said more than he probably should have.'

'Aye?' John stepped from one foot onto the other, still agitated, but enjoying the feeling of being held captive by Sherlock's strong hands. 'Anything we could use against him?' John asked, and looked up, but when he saw doubt flicker across Sherlock's face, he needed no answer. 'No, not enough, is it?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'But it's a start, John. Moriarty seems to trust me, and I know exactly who I have to talk to next.'

oOo

The voice was dark and it was mocking him, a bearer of something sinister and deadly. It frightened him like nothing had frightened him before.

'I've been waiting for you, dear ... You were seen today and I was _told_ about it.'

With every word the voice came nearer, like a spider crawling to the centre of its web.

'You were seen conversing, babbling, _siding_ with the enemy. What on earth makes you think I'd allow you to do that?'

The voice was so near now that it became more than just a voice, it became a breath, a touch and a colour which painted everything black.

'Bad, bad idea, my dear. Very bad. I think you need to be punished for this lack of discipline, don't you agree?'

He felt his body tremble in response to this threat, felt his heart drumming a fearful and frantic rhythm. However he made no attempt to run, knowing it would be useless.

Instead he closed his eyes and resigned to the inevitable.

* * *

**A/N** The novel Carl and John are talking about is 'The Catcher in the Rye' by Jerome Salinger (this site won't let me write the correct author's name, for reasons unknown to me ;( ... the software probably thinks it is a website because of the dots ...)

Thank you for all your support, my dears! Please keep it up!

JJ


	11. Revelations

**Revelations**

Burning pain was surrounding him like a halo. His body reduced to a throbbing mass, his nerves sending out a desperate SOS, trying to rouse him. Visions of black and grey, mingling with shots of silver, like lightning shooting across his dazed mind, causing him to slip in and out of consciousness.

Eventually he came to, but the slightest movement, a twitch only, made him groan with pain, his whole body pulsing with a fiery hot red. It was pure mercy when he passed out again.

oOo

'Through here, Carl,' John all but pushed the boy into a little store room, filled with stacks of dusty volumes, no longer deemed readable by the elderly librarian Ms Godard. Closing the door on the deserted library was somehow unnecessary and John questioned his motivation behind it for a moment. Carl stared at him, wide-eyed when he realised the closed door, but beside the obvious fear there were also trust and hope in his bright green eyes. Hope to have finally found an ally in all his misery.

'Come here, Carl,' John guided the boy away from the door to the back of the room where they both sat down on the carpeted floor, side by side, companiable and close.

'Will you tell me now, Carl?' John asked gently, smiling encouragingly at the boy.

'Yes, John,' Carl was quick to nod his assent. 'Ever since I came here, almost one years ago, James has been picking on me.'

Now that Carl had decided it was time to share his secret he found he could speak without hesitation.

'Little things, really. Things that would bother me, but not enough to ... you know. Mocking me cause I'm a redhead, stealing my pocket money, spilling water or tea over my nearly finished homework, that sort of thing.'

John nodded, but did not interrupt.

'My mum always used to tell me to ignore such things, because it really was the bully's problem, not mine. So that's what I tried, to ignore it as best as I could. I tried to laugh it away, but very often I just couldn't. And then I was so sad and angry.'

'Was there nobody you could talk to? What about your mum?'

Carl shook his head. 'Mum died before I came to Lewisham, that's why I'm here ...' Carl fell silent, and John could feel the mourning, the sadness that filled the little boy's heart.

'I'm sorry, Carl. Maybe you could have talked to somebody else?'

'Not really, no. James said that nobody would believe me anyway, and he's right, isn't he? Why would anyone believe _me_, a fledgling, that he, the school's king ...' his voice trailed off and John glanced at him sideways. He marvelled what a brave little boy he was, and how awful it must have been to go through all this bullying alone.

'What about your form teacher?'

'Dr Anderson? He laughed at me when I told him, told me to harden and not to be such a sissy.'

John was taken aback, 'That's what he said? Did you give him a name? Something to follow up on?'

'I couldn't, could I?' Carl hung his head, 'I told him that an older boy was picking on me ... I did not dare to grass James up,' Carl peered at John, looking for approval that he had done the right thing, tried all he could. Shame flooded John when he realised that he himself was at fault. He had not noticed Carl's distress, he had not helped because the last weeks had been so busy, filled to the brim with all things Sherlock. His mind had been entirely occupied, no room, no thought left for anyone or anything else.

John squeezed Carl's shoulder, 'I understand, Carl. I would have done the same, it's really not your fault, not at all.'

'Lately, there was another boy who joined in. Jim's friend, I think.'

Carl glanced at John and timidly leaned against him, looking for comfort and John wrapped his arm around the skinny form of the eleven-year-old like an older brother would. He silently vowed to be there for him now, trying to make amends.

'This one was less cruel, less intimidating ... but when they both tormented me it felt like there was no break anymore ... never a break with the two of them going at it ... there was only this constant bickering and sneering and laughing about me ...'

Carl began to cry silently, and John let him, gently holding him in his arms.

oOo

He drifted in and out of consciousness over the next seconds, minutes, hours ... his brain, void of images, his body brimming with ache, pain and hurt ... he was unable to keep track of something as insubstantial as time and he had no idea for how long he had been lying there, shivering. The pain was absolute, so excruciating that he wished, no prayed, for merciful unconsciousness whenever he came to.

Once, he slowly he turned his head, trying to locate the source of this horrendous pain. Even this tiny movement hurt unbelievably, made him dizzy, almost nauseous and he screwed his eyes shut. He had to let this wave of pain pass before he could remotely think about continuing his scrutiny.

When he opened his eyes again, he did it ever so slowly, careful to ride out the waves of pain, one after the other, somehow this made everything more bearable. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the floor, telling him that the floor he was lying on was wooden, cold and dusty. It was dark, but not impenetrable, black darkness, and after blinking a few times and giving his eyes time to adjust he could make out where he was.

He was lying on the dirty floor of a class room, near to the outer wall, the moonlight falling in through the huge windows his only source of light. He could not for the life of him remember how he had ended up here.

His gaze travelled along his left arm which was lying in a crazy, completely unnatural angle to his body, and the reflex to righten this mistake made him yelp with fresh, angry pain. Tears welled up in his eyes and he instinctively curled up in a foetal position, trying to shelter from the pain and from what had caused it.

And all of a sudden he remembered, and images, smells and screams came back to him with a vengeance, making his whole body tremble in panic that he might return.

oOo

'Sebastian!' Sherlock called and hurried to catch up with his tall, fair-haired classmate. Sherlock had been loitering around the entrance of the school's gym for the best part of an hour, waiting for him.

'Can we have a word?' Sherlock smiled at him, a seemingly open and unguarded smile, radiating, but entirely fake.

Sebastian shortly gazed at him and shook his head. He then continued his way as if Sherlock had not spoken at all, slinking out of the gym and into the cold, drafty corridor connecting the newish glass building with the older part of the school.

Irritated Sherlock clicked his tongue and set out to follow Sebastian Moran. Obviously he was aware that this would be by no means an easy feat. There was no way around it, though, he needed to talk to him and it had to be tonight. Following Sebastian through the corridor he heard a clock chime nine somewhere, and he quickened his pace, determined that he would use this rare opportunity.

It was the senior's privilege to use the gym out of school hours, and everybody knew that Sebastian could be found working out there almost every evening. Moriarty, on the other hand, was not one for exercise, dreaded, loathed it even. Sherlock was aware of that fact and so he had waited for Sebastian, and now - _now_ - he wanted to talk.

'Seabastian, why did you give a false testimony? Why did you tell Lestrade that you were witness to John attempting to kill Moriarty?'

It was a gamble of course, approaching Sebastian like that and bluntly accusing him.

'Is it because Moriarty knows something about you? Something that he can use to keep you in line? Is it because ...'

Sherlock did not have the chance to finish his sentence as Sebastian quickly spun around and shoved him roughly against the brick wall. He lost grip of his gym bag and it landed next to their feet with a muffled whoomph.

'Don't you talk like that to me! Don't you try and blackmail me, it's not going to work!'

'Okay! Okay -' Sherlock lifted his hands in surrender, mildly surprised by the turn this conversation had taken. He locked eyes with him. 'Clearly, you know exactly why I want to talk with you, so let's be frank with one another.' Sherlock lowered his voice, 'I want you to withdraw your testimony, I want you to tell the truth. I want you to tell Lestrade what really happened!'

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and pushed Sherlock against the wall, once, twice, crowding him in. He hissed into his face. 'Why on earth would I want to do that?'

His words were undoubtedly hostile, but Sherlock saw insecurity flicker across his face. He narrowed his eyes and Sebastian glanced away, a slight flush creeping up his neck.

'I am _not_ going to be forced!' Sebastian said, more to himself, before he fixed his eyes on Sherlock again. 'If - and I say if - I am going to help you and John in any way, then only and entirely on my own terms, is that clear?'

Sherlock nodded, 'Absolutely.'

'Good,' Sebastian gave Sherlock another push, but his heart was no longer in it. Instinctively Sherlock knew that he had to plough on now.

'You will help us, Sebastian. I know you will.'

Sebastian let go of him and took two steps backwards. He picked up his gym bag and snorted, 'Is that so?' And the look he gave Sherlock was laced with contempt. Hanging the gym back over his shoulder he turned to go.

'Yes,' Sherlock spoke louder now, wanting to be heard over his apparent confusion. 'Because you started to doubt. Because you started to question. Because you started to see.'

Sebastian stopped in his tracks, but he would not turn around, 'What?'

'You started to see what monster Moriarty was. Before, you just basked in his light, a touch of spotlight for you as well, maybe you even enjoyed a bit of this senseless bullying, but this Carl Powers business changed everything.' He had Sebastian's attention now. 'You despise James Moriarty for forcing you to torment that little boy. Demanding more and crueller things in the past weeks because he could blackmail you into it ...'

Sebastian's shoulders slumped, 'How do you know?'

Sherlock pushed off the wall, 'Moriarty told me, in fact he could not wait to blab out how he played you. He even told me why. Told me it was you who planted the weed on Thomas Burton, it was you who went to Lestrade and denounced him. He managed to keep everything under wraps, so nobody suspected you. But, deep inside his twisted, insane brain he knew this knowledge would come handy one day.'

'Why -' Sebastian swallowed around the bile and shame rising in his throat. The recount of Jim's vile machinations and his own part in them forced his body to react. 'Why the hell would he tell you?'

'Because he thinks I'm on his side. I made him believe I would abandon John just like that, made him believe I was interested in him.'

Sebastian turned around to face him then, and Sherlock was astounded by the myriad of emotions flittering over his face. Hurt, anger, disgust, sadness, it was all there.

'What about you then? Are you ... _interested_ in James Moriarty?'

Sherlock shook his head, and in that instance he knew with absolute certainty that it was true.

'I'm not like him. I don't revel in the pain of others. I don't betray friends and ...' he halted a moment, unsure of the words, their power, their magnitude, but then he added, 'And I love John.'

Sebastian's glance flickered to the side and he looked forlorn and sad, the big, strong young man gone, only to be replaced by a vulnerable adolescent.

'Good,' he merely said and nodded. He locked eyes with Sherlock and nodded once more before he turned around and slowly walked down the cold corridor.

oOo

Anger, uncontrollable anger and fury. He had screamed at him, wrath transforming him been beyond recognition. Anything likeable had been gone, smashed into smethereens and dissolved in this sea of rage.

Pushing him first, quick, but hard punches against his chest, making him stumble, designed to make him feel small and helpless. One, well-timed shove made him reel backwards and land on the floor with a hard thud.

His face had been disfigured by this untameable rage, this face, dancing above him, and all the time he was talking in this monotonous, almost singing voice, like a mantra, meant to keep up the rage. Talked about everyting that connected them, what they had gone through, talked about betrayal and treason and love and hate and loyalty.

He had been reduced to staring, mesmerised like a tiny mouse in front of an enormous snake, and all he had been able to do was to let this vile wave of abuse wash over him.

And then he had kicked him, had planted vicious kicks to the ribs, his side, his thighs and he had worked himself into a steaming frenzy, and the last thing he could remember was that James Moriarty had stomped with the heel of his shoe on his elbow with all his might.

He remembered how astounded he had been when the bone had splintered like brittle wood.

oOo

Carl cried and John comforted him. When he recounted the incident to Sherlock later he could not recall how long they had been sitting next to each other, lost in what they had exchanged and what it could possibly mean for both of them.

Could John help little Carl? Or would Carl's confession help to bring Moriarty to justice? Would it? Would it make a difference at all?

Carl's account of Dr Anderson's reaction to his agony did not do much to restore John's belief in Lewisham Hall and the powers that be. How could it when even Lestrade, whom John valued highly, had not believed them, had not taken sides, had been too much of a coward to stand up against Moriarty.

John sighed and squeezed Carl's shoulder, 'Come on, Carl. I'll walk you to your room.'

Carl nodded. Still snivelling a bit he blew his nose in a once white hanky before he got up and followed John through the library. When they stepped out into the corridor he timidly slipped his little hand into John's big and warm one. John smiled down at Carl, trying very hard to offer him as much comfort as he was able to.

oOo

Sebastian slinked down the long corridor, away from Sherlock who stayed behind, granting Sebastian the benefit of not being seen with him. It would not help their cause, or Sebastian for that matter, if Jim got wind of their little conversation.

Sherlock's mind was racing with possibilities. Adding what he learned a few minutes ago to what Carl had told John this afternoon, they might indeed stand a chance against Moriarty. It was evident to Sherlock that they needed Sebastian, though, they needed him on their side. He was the key to James Moriarty's downfall.

Sure that enough time had passed, Sherlock followed his classmate down the corridor, turning right at the end, heading towards John's room. It was time to discuss their options and to act accordingly.

oOo

He turned his head to the side in an attempt to better assess his situation - _I need help ... quick ... help_ - 'Is there ... anybody?' he called, 'Please! I need help!'

His own voice frightened him, it was so weak and barely recognisable. How could anyone possibly hear this voice? He was in a class room, at night, everybody else was asleep in their rooms or watching telly in the community rooms in the other wing.

His gaze slowly travelled across the floor and up the radiators and through the windows. In the opposite wing he saw light in a few windows, but most of them were dark, most students probably already fast asleep. Suddenly panic overcame him, fear that nobody would find him, that he would have to lie here in agony for the whole night. And he might come back, he might finish what he had started ...

Grunting he tried to sit up, cradling his broken arm to his chest, pain shooting through him like fireworks, but he was determined now. He had to get up, he had to reach the corridor, find somebody, maybe a teacher still busy marking some tests in the staff room, or a cleaning lady. It took all of him, all the remaining strength his body could summon, and if it had not been for the pain-deafening rush of adrenalin coursing through his veins now and the absolute will to get help, he would surely have given up.

It seemed to take ages, but he finally managed to struggle upright and stumble towards the door. It was ajar and for a moment the thought that he must be waiting for him in the corridor to finish what he had started paralysed him. Bracing himself for whatever may be lurking in the void behind the door he opened it with infinite care, slowly and ready to retreat any second.

Fear coursed through his body when he peered through the gap only to find the corridor dimly-lit by a kind of nightlight and completely deserted. He slumped against the doorframe, exhaling noisily, relief struggling with exhaustion.

Panic hit him hard when he heard footsteps approaching. Instinct demanded to hide, to turn around and seek out the shadow, to do everything not to meet him again. But he was paralysed by fear and pain, unable to move and he could do nothing but fairly shrink into himself as the sound of the footstaps grew louder and louder and more distinct. Any second he would be seen by the person approaching, any second he would be back in hell. He sank down to the floor, cradling his arm like a fragile child to his chest and closed his eyes.

'Sebastian! What the hell has happened to you?'

* * *

**A/N** Okay, I hope this chapter worked for you, what with the three different storylines and the flashbacks etc ... ?

Thank you so much for your support so far, there's a bit more to come (well, obviously :)

JJ


	12. So here we are

**So Here We Are ...**

Mr Lestrade leaned forward, his body language conveying unease and the tension in his shoulders speaking of the need to finally bring this whole, frankly disgraceful, affair to a satisfying end. He fixed his eyes on the student sitting in front of him and when he spoke his voice was low and insistent.

'Sebastian, are you absolutely sure this is what happened?'

Sebastian Moran resisted the urge to scream and to rant, instead he merely pressed out.

'Yes! I _told_ you.'

Lestrade sat back and crossed his arms, the muscles in his arms flexing on their own account, trying to get rid of the restlessness. Aiming for calm he glanced away before he fixed his eyes on this young man again, focusing on his fresh face marked by angry bruises and his left arm in plaster.

Although it was more than evident that something awful and very likely traumatising had happened to Sebastian Moran, Lestrade wanted to be thorough, he wanted to be sure, hence his reluctance, hence his need to be told again. Quite simply put, he was afraid to make yet another mistake.

'Sebastian, you were sitting here, in my office, just a few days ago, swearing that what you told me was the absolute truth - and now you are telling me the exact opposite and claiming this to be the truth and nothing but the truth. You might realise that I want to take a second or two to ponder on those two very different versions of events.'

'Yes, probably ...'

Sebastian felt exposed, caught out, and he was by no means such a hard and callous character as not to be affected by his headmaster's words. Embarrassed he dropped his gaze to his hands and chewed on his lower lip, a bad habit when he was nervous.

'But you can see what happened to me, and I told you who was responsible for that ... Yes, I admit that I was lying about John because Jim - James Moriarty - made me. Because he knew that I had been the one who gave Thomas the weed - the marihuana - He used this knowledge to blackmail me into tormenting a younger student and to give this false statement so that John Watson would be expelled.'

'So you say, Sebastian.'

Despite his dismissive tone Lestrade was ready to believe him. Not only did he want to, but it would solve many of his problems along the way. It would not only exonerate John Watson and Sherlock, it would also help Carl Powers and probably encourage a lot of other victims of James Moriarty's reign to come forward. Nonetheless he was loath to let Sebastian off the hook so easily. And what made his stomach grumble with unease was the thought that involving the police would make this whole blasted affair public.

If he was honest, though, there was no way around making it public, because James Moriarty's assault on Sebastian alone was a very grave matter, one that had to be given into the hands of the police and one for which the young man would have to face serious consequences.

Lestrade sighed and after a moment of silence he said, 'I _do_ believe you, Sebastian. And I am truly sorry and appalled by what happened to you.'

A smile, meant to reassure Sebastian as much as himself, followed his words.

'Obviously, I will inform the police immediately. They will certainly want to talk to you, and probably to Mike Stamford who found you.'

Mr Lestrade got up and walked around his huge wooden desk. He leaned against it, next to Sebastian in an effort to establish trust.

'Sebastian, I think it's best you don't stay alone from now on. Do you have somebody who can be with you all the time?'

Sebastian understood the implication behind that query and swallowed when panic flooded his chest, threatening to take his breath away.

'There's Mike, and I guess I can count on John and Sherlock as well now.'

Sebastian looked at his headmaster and smiled a bitter little smile, acknowledging the fact that Jim was very likely not quite finished with him yet. Fear of Jim returning to finish off what he had started had been a constant companion since the incident, and it was this basic, almost feral fear that made him realise just that bit more clearly how much little Carl Powers, Thomas Burton, John Watson or all the others they had bullied must have suffered.

'I'm sorry, Mr Lestrade.' Sebastian said softly and hung his head. 'I'm really sorry.'

oOo

True to his word Lestrade did his utmost to protect Sebastian Moran from James Moriarty by involving the police. Once he had been convinced that everything Sebastian, John, Sherlock and little Carl Powers had told him was in fact true, he had contacted the local police station.

Three of them had arrived two hours later, DI Warrick, DC Clemens and DC Jones, looking all serious and no-nonsense and obviously trying to instill fear and respect into James Moriarty whom they questioned in one of the classrooms with Lestrade present. All they got out of him was sneers and some snarky remarks and after two hours along those lines, they took him to the station to continue the interview.

It was a truly shabby goodbye for Jim, the self-proclaimed king of Lewisham Hall, with only a few students there to witness his shameful exit and it was more than obvious to everyone that he would never return.

In a hastily called assembly that evening Lestrade addressed the whole issue openly and without holding back -

James Moriarty was the perpetrator, he was expelled from Lewisham Hall, he would not be able to take the finals and he had to face the consequences for his deeds, among them false allegations, bullying and the very serious assault on Sebastian Moran -

Lestrade's revelations plunged the whole school into a strange atmosphere and in the excited chatter and conversations following the assembly relief would be mingling with curiosity, hunger for sensation mixing with gossip, everything would suddenly be wilder, exaggerated, wildly blown out of proportions. Students would pretend to have known all along, others would admit in all honesty to have been entirely clueless the whole time. And ironically, for a few more days James Moriarty was indeed the king of the school once more before the excitement of the summer break helped to forget him and his evil machinations.

When Lestrade stepped down from the podium after what had seemed an eternity to him, but which had in fact only been a few minutes, he was exhausted and glad it was over. Under the impression of those last days he vowed to go through his school with open eyes and ears for everybody from now on. He looked tired and ashen, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets, and when Mrs Hudson patted his arm and asked him to join her for a cup of tea, he gladly accepted.

James Moriarty never returned to Lewisham Hall. One day after his quiet departure his belongings were collected by his parents. Sherlock, who had seen the couple arriving from a first floor window and had then observed their comings and goings, later described them to John as a mousy-looking pair, completely inconspicuous and utterly subdued. It was obvious to Sherlock that Jim would have no trouble to play them exactly as he had played Sebastian and Henry and all the others here in Lewisham. It was obvious that these two would stand no chance against their cunning son.

When Sherlock turned away from the window to return to his studies, a strange sensation vibrated in his chest and the thought that his and Jim's paths would cross inevitably in the future, filled his every fibre.

Placing his fingertips against his temples he closed his eyes, willing this disturbing thought away, refusing to let it enter his mind palace, refusing it a little crevice to settle, giving it no chance to sneer, snicker and exhale evil fumes.

A shudder ran over his body. No, he would have none of that. He wanted nothing more than to close this chapter, he wanted to forget, he wanted to delete Jim Moriarty.

oOo

The bell chimed - once - twice. Shrill and rude as ever, once again demanding everybody to finish their lunch break and leave their secret hideouts, their sanctuaries.

John heard it as well, but he did not stir a finger to obey the bell's command. There was nothing which could make him obey this bell ever again. A warm and happy smile spread over his face and he lifted his head a tiny fraction, just enough to see smaller students eagerly dashing over the immaculate green lawns towards the main building.

Little Carl Powers was among them, and John's smile widened when he saw him laughing with his friends, carefree and looking forward to the summer break. Carl glanced into his direction, but John knew he could not be seen in his hideout. Nonetheless he lifted his hand and waved.

Some of the seniors were following suit, among them his friends Sally and Mike, walking hand in hand. None of the childish running and rushing for them, though. They were strolling, slowly, in the knowledge that there really was no rush as they had finished their finals today and everybody would allow them to take it easy and slow. But the bell managed to call them back to school nonetheless - Old habits die hard, John thought and snorted. Tomorrow the seniors would leave Lewisham Hall for good ... and then life would finally begin!

John felt way too comfortable where he was, in his, their hideout, this little dip on the upper part of a sloping orchard, covered with moss and grass. He slumped back onto the soft ground and stretched his arms luxuriously. His thoughts travelled back to the countless times he had been here alone and then with Sherlock and just the thought of him made his body tingle with anticipation and unrest.

They had arranged to meet here, in this bed nature had provided under the huge, gnarled old apple tree. John checked his watch, and realised that he had been waiting for almost half an hour - _he really should be back now, he just went back for a short talk with Mr Lestrade, or was it to phone his family?_ - John was not sure, as the last days had been so fast and eventful and strenuous, that his brain was now demanding to slow down, blurring completely unrelated things into a mixture of colours, images and smells in the process.

John closed his eyes and continued to wait patiently. He did not mind as the weather was fine, dry and warm with a little breeze, and the air ripe with a full summery scent of apples and warm grass. His limbs grew heavy and tiredness overcame him and John Watson, worn out by the excitement of the last days, fell asleep.

o

Sherlock approached their hideout, his steps accelerated by the fact that John was waiting for him there and slowed down by the knowledge of what Mycroft had told him just now on the phone.

_Mycroft_! Not mummy, not father - no, Mycroft had been chosen to convey his family's plans to him. Sherlock stopped for a moment and forced the anger welling up in him to the back of his mind.

He did not want anger to take this moment hostage as it would probably be their last opportunity to be together here and he had no intention whatsoever to let Mycroft and his truly ludicrous plans for his future spoil this occasion. Ludicrous these plans might well seem, but Sherlock also knew that he had no means, at least not for the time being, to escape his family's wishes.

Ducking underneath the branches of the apple tree, he saw him, lying on his back and fast asleep. Careful not to wake his John, Sherlock sat down, as close as possible and resigned himself to observe. For the first time since this Moriarty business had weighed him down, John appeared truly peaceful and relaxed, there was even a little smile playing around his lips and on impulse Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

'Sherl ...' John muttered sleepily and weaved his fingers through his dark curls to bring him closer and to keep him where he was, with him, close and intimate.

Their kisses were slow and sensuous, born of a deep understanding and knowledge of what the other liked and craved. Unconsciously they were taking their time, savouring and registering, the faint taste of tea and cigarettes, the textures of hair and skin, traces of stubble excitingly tickling soft lips.

Neither John nor Sherlock felt the need to talk, instead they craved the silence, craved the contact and when suddenly this turned into something darker, it was as if a sense of gloom settled over them, overshadowing this encounter.

On impulse John broke their kiss and wrapped his arms fiercely around Sherlock's lean frame, pressing their bodies together, allowing no space to linger between them. Still, it was unnecessary to utter a word, they both knew what drove them. They just held on to each other, assuring themselves of the other's presence and drinking in the closeness and intimacy.

'I don't want this to end,' John eventually whispered when he could not stand the silence any longer. Sherlock did not answer and John's heart skipped a beat.

'Sherl? Did you hear me?'

John felt Sherlock's nod against his shoulder, but he still did not answer. It was clear, that he would not talk about what lay ahead just now, but John needed to talk, if not about their imminent future, then about something else, and so he changed the subject. Aiming at casualness that he did not feel, he said.

'I'm still amazed how everything turned out. James gone now ... and Sebastian helping us. After all that Jim did to stop him ...' his voice trailed off.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John, 'Yes,' he simply said and ghosted his finger over John's forehead to smooth away the worry lines that the mention of his tormentor's name had painted there. Promptly John smiled again.

'But that's what he did, John, and I'm glad he did, and I'm even happier that Lestrade overcame his inertia and insecurity and called the police and that everything turned out fine ... and that's that!'

It felt like a command, this '_that's that_' as if Sherlock wanted this affair settled once and for all, and John silently agreed. No need to talk about it anymore and the smile they exchanged was meant to bury the past, but was still too weak and hesitant to venture too far into the future.

'John,' Sherlock started, but then he pressed his lips together, unsure how to proceed.

'Yes?'

'I just talked to Mycroft...'

John concentrated on Sherlock's voice, the tone, the flavour, what might lie behind those words. Sherlock rolled off him and sat up. John hated the sudden distance between them.

'You know that everybody, including my family, thought I would not pass the finals, and that I was in fact a failure and a disgrace to the Holmes name and ...' he stopped and his eyes clouded over, he was clearly far away, back at home, undoubtedly reliving one of numerous conversations he must have had with his brother. John gently cupped his chin and this little touch brought Sherlock back to John.

'Mycroft has arranged a kind of work experience for me, in Canada, working with some distant relatives...'

'Canada?' John sat up, this was far worse than he had feared. 'Canada? That's the bloody other side of the world! How are we supposed to meet? I'll be in London, and then on an army base ...' he wiped his hands over his face, trying to wipe the disappointment away.

Sherlock had no answer to John's question, nothing to alleviate the blow.

'How long, Sherlock? _For fuck's sake _ ... how long? I think I could manage some weeks, one or two months ... maybe.'

'A year.'

John opened his mouth, but no appropriate or coherent sentence would form, so he just gulped drily around his disappointment. A coldness started to form in the pit of his stomach.

'So, this is it, then?' John's fingers nervously worried the hem of his t-shirt and he did not look at Sherlock, did not see the fear his words elicited in those pale eyes.

'No!' Sherlock simply said and the vehemence in his voice made John glance up again. 'No, of course not, John! How can you say that!'

John faced him, waiting. Sherlock clicked his tongue and sighed.

'Don't be so melodramatic, John! Clearly, everything's going to be a bit more difficult, that's all ...'

John snorted, surprised and relieved at the same time that Sherlock would contemplate a long-distance relationship at all.

'I mean, we know for sure that it will be very difficult, we will not see each other for weeks, months even. What if we don't manage to meet at all during that year? There's the phone of course, though I don't know where in Canada, in what remote, godforsaken spot, I will end up exactly. That might of course present an additional obstacle. What if our feelings for each other cool off? You might meet someone else, I might meet someone else. We are young, after all. Obviously, as I am not as prone to physical contact as you are, I might find it easier to go without.'

John opened his mouth to intercept this flow of mights and what-ifs, but Sherlock waved all his possible objections away with an impatient flick of his hand.

'Taking all these obstacles into account it is indeed more likely than not that a long-distance relationship might not work out, but ...' he paused for effect and John felt the strong urge to throttle him, to force the _but_ out of his pretty mouth.

'But ...I am willing to give it a try.' Sherlock smirked, 'What about you?'

'Why do you even have to ask? _Jesus _- you bloody well know the answer, you insufferable git!'

John punched his arm, with more force than he had intended, an expression of his fear and annoyance, and Sherlock winced. John grabbed him and slumping back he dragged Sherlock with him until he was lying on top of him. He buried both hands in his curls and pulled him close none too gently.

They locked eyes for a moment, and then John's mouth sought Sherlock's lips and this time their kisses were different. They were fuelled by what had been and by what would be, and it was all the answer they both needed in that moment.

Deep, loving and demanding those kisses were, slowly taking the fear and the doubts apart, smashing them into smithereens and scattering the tiny pieces in the light breeze of this beautiful summer day.

oOo The End oOo

* * *

**A/N** Thank you all so much for supporting me while writing this fic, for every review, alert and favourite!

A special thank you goes to Mapleleafcameo, powerOgirl, Witchravenfox, wingatron, godiva33, Christine Eponine, Honey and Chai, beemoh, johnimholmes, DoctorSherlockLove and Miss R. Hood for their continuing support. You really make my day, my lovelies!

See you all soon :)

JJ


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